The Triumphant Sun

That unmistakable major tone that distinguishes greater from lesser poets. -Andre Breton on Aime Cesaire Those who've helped me find my way out of the various fogs in my life are owed a debt that can never be repaid. All I can do is pay homage and be thankful for having found them. So it is with Aime Cesaire, a titan of a being if ever there was one. His passing not only removes a true voice against oppression, but marks the end of an era for me. The last of the classic Surrealists, it was through Breton that I first discovered Cesaire, first, in his poetry, then in his diatribe Discourse on Colonialism, which pre-dated Fanon's later, more well-known works. But what I appreciated so much about Cesaire was his insightfulness, the way he'd analyze the colonial dynamic down to the interpersonal level, down to the way one spoke. In the French colonized Carribean, that meant an ongoing war between Patois and French, which I talked about in an earlier post that cites Euzhan Palcy's, Sugarcane Alley. By the way, Palcy made a doc on Cesaire which I was lucky to see at the Pan-African Film Fest several years ago. It's good, and quite a thrill to see the man himself.

As the story goes, Breton was on a layover in Martinique and in a haberdashery when he picked up a copy of Tropiques, edited by Cesaire, and began to read one of his poems. Immediately struck by the Surrealist techniques, Breton hunted Cesaire down. Cesaire would confirm his allegiance to Surrealism, not only in technique in art, but the morality of the "movement." It's easy to take pot shots at Breton these days, and in certain snobbified circles, it's of a fashion. I myself have plenty of problems with the man, and the many "ex-communications" throughout Surrealism's stormy existence (Ernst, Desnos, Aragon...) attest to this fact. And as problematic as it is for a privileged, white Frenchman to bestow the seal of approval upon a black colonial, he also staunchly praised him to the skies and brought Cesaire to the attention of those who could take his voice to the ends of the earth. Cesaire's intransigent spirit was like a giant pillar that runs to the core of the earth. When like so many other leftists, he joined the French CP, he soon became disillussioned with their ability to answer the colonial question, but specifically, the black question. Negritude. Like Ellison's nameless Invisible Man, the CP would fall short and prompt a great riposte, his ascerbic, Letter to Maurice Thorez, the then CP head. I try and communicate to Renee that you have to get your head and heart right. That means having an intellect that's armed to the teeth, but the spirit to fire rockets. To not be a pussy doesn't mean acting hard, it means being hard. The kids in the barrio have it all wrong; it's not their fault, because what do you expect from a situation like that? Which is why Dr. Huey P. Newton's observation that the best Panthers were always the brothers off the corner, the hustlers, gangstas, fucking degenerates, because once politicized, they became fierce enemies of oppression. Were there problems in that scenario as well, like sexism and homophobia? Of course. That's a fact. But that doesn't invalidate the revolution that overcomes a person in shedding that "old skin." After all, don't those things also exist in boardrooms and any other echelon of power? Or worse, amongst priests who pray on young people? And so Cesaire spoke to and for "those who don't even speak proper French." This my favorite poem that I cited last year. Aime Cesaire is dead. Long live Aime Cesaire. 

JUDGMENT OF THE LIGHT

Transfixing muscles and blood devouring all eyes this intense bright mass of foliage crowning with truth our usual lights a ray a spray from the triumphant sun by means of which justice will be done and every arrogance washed away Household vessels and human flesh slip away into the thick neck of the waves silences by way of contrast have begun to exert the most substantial pressures

Around the circumference of the circle among public activities along the riverbanks the flame stands solitary and splendid in its upright judgment

My Sista Maloy

With the dearth of good Asian/APA writers, it's about time I wrote about a bad Asian sista; you can click through to her old blog above, but her new blog is subscription only.

Besides being smart, what I appreciate about Maloy is that she brings an Asian national perspective that is rarely within the realm of Asian Pacific American (APA) consciousness. It was evident when I first began reading her posts on colonialism. And as someone who has historically had to fetch deconstruction on colonialism/post-colonialism from outside of the Asian/APA circle, more often than not from black intellectuals (like Cesaire, CLR James and Fanon, and others such as Don Bustany, Said, Zinn, and the Surrealists), she was a breath of fresh air.

And as I've said before that Michael Moore's work, despite it's polemical nature, is insightful. But it's a rare feat when someone can take serious subjects and make them funny and entertaining. Comedians such as Bruce, Carlin and Rock do this, and Moore really hit the bull's eye with Sicko. Maloy's entertainment factor isn't always on because sometimes she's just being straight serious, but generally her blog's smart, and she's really entertaining.

Did I (just) mention entertaining? Mix parts of Amy Winehouse train wreck, good writer, up to snuff colonial deconstruction and fashionista. Oh, and goldsmith.

Now, watching Renee grow up has been fascinating. She's acutely aware of how lame APAs are, how they worship at the feet of all things that only sink one deeper into "the system" and fog the mirror of self-reflection. There's a real price paid in that worship, and one of them is the utter lack of strong role models available to her as an Asian woman. They simply don't exist.

And here's something many of you might not know; for a good part of her life, Renee has spent significant amounts of it in Hawaii, which is dominated by Asian/Pacific Islander culture. Well, "dominated" in spite of being overrun by white culture, if that makes any sense. Also, my father was born there, and I've relatives who call it home.

So I turned her on to Maloy a while back, and she was an instant fan, as I suspected she would be. It's funny, but Renee and I can be out eating and catching up, and we often bring up Maloy's latest take, and we're off to the races, using it as a touchstone for analogical and analytical discussions about everything from music to colonialism to the sorry state of APAs.

It's weird how I live in a city rife with Asian nationals and Americans, but I feel outside of the circle. There's a fundamental rift between us and it's always been there. Perhaps it has something to do with me having been raised in a Chicano culture, I don't know, but I've always been at odds with "them." I mention that rift because while Maloy and I have never met in person, I feel much more at home with her ideas than the sterile nothingness of APA politics and art. (In fairness, there are some very talented APA comedians who I wish would get a shot. Honestly, there are some funny suckas out there)

A while back I wrote to Maloy and we've corresponded a few times, and despite her sometimes curmudgeonly blog demeanor, she comes across as really sweet on an interpersonal level. She even helped Renee once with a life situation, and for that I'm thankful. Hey you remember being 16, right?

But I guess among the things I really appreciate is her honesty and forthrightness. She pulls no punches. And as someone who endures a goodly amount of passive-aggressive behavior in his life, she's a welcome change.

So here's a raised glass to you, Sista Maloy, on the other side of the world.

Stay up!

Le Grand Jeu

Like any other form of art, what passes for the most part as poetry is garbage. But I recall as if yesterday my discovery of Robert Desnos's The Voice at Waldenbooks in Del Amo Mall. When I read the forward I discovered a key feature about Desnos that would forever change me: he was a Surrealist.

I plan on writing about Desnos in a future post, but since I've never addressed poetry I am going to lead off with one of if not my favorite poem. For me, it sums up everything great art should strive for. It's by Aime' Cesaire, a titan if ever there was one.

I dedicate it to you - you know who you are.

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JUDGEMENT OF THE LIGHT

Transfixing muscles and blood
devouring all eyes this intense bright mass of foliage
crowning with truth our usual lights
a ray a spray from the triumphant sun
by means of which
justice will be done
and every arrogance washed away

Household vessels and human flesh slip away into the thick
neck of the waves
silences by way of contrast have begun to exert the most
substantial pressures

Around the circumference of the circle
among public activities along the riverbanks
the flame
stands solitary and splendid in its upright judgment