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Summer
Books Subversive poetry tells of martyrs, peasants
THE HOUR OF THE
FURNACES By Renny Golden Mid-List Press (4324 12th Ave. S.,
Minneapolis MN 55407), 86 pages, $12 |
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By GARY MacEOIN
After the Bible, this is the most subversive book I ever read. It
replaces Das Kapital as No. 2 on my list. Do not read it unless you are
prepared to repent and believe the good news.
Its 23 poems, Golden tells us, aspire to be both poetry and social
history. The voices in these poems -- clergy, human rights workers,
peasants and guerrillas caught up in the wars that plagued Central America over
the last couple of decades -- speak from Salvadoran graves, from Guatemalan
highlands, from dank jails, from primitive hideouts, from ghost towns, from
country churches. The poems are divided into two main sections: martyr poems
and peasant poems. Each martyr and each peasant is presented first in a brief
prose account, then in a poem.
One of the founders of the Sanctuary movement in the early 1980s,
Golden went to El Salvador in 1985 to see for herself, and she has been
visiting El Salvador and Guatemala almost every year since. I saw her in San
Salvador for the 20th anniversary of Archbishop Oscar Romeros
assassination in March.
Laura Lopez in 1981 chose to relocate with her five children as a
pastoral worker to the guerrillas and their families on the Guazapa volcano in
El Salvador. In the absence of a priest, she led all the services and became
known as the bishop.
As the attacks of A-37 bombers intensified during Holy Week in
1985, she told the people in her Good Friday homily that the
martyrs cross has been placed on our shoulders ... [but] the word of God
has to be made a reality. A week later, during an intense bombardment,
she gave up her space in the underground shelter to a family with small
children, and with her 13-year-old daughter tried to outrun the ground patrols.
A few extracts from the poem complete the story:
The people ordained you Bishop. No
ecclesiastic noticed, a housewife teaching catechism to
illiterates. As for sacramental authority, what you had packed in your
knapsack: bread, alcohol for wounds, sacramental oils, a few coins
...
Mama tried to get up after the first shot.
Another bullet hit her spine and she did not rise. Only the knapsack
... She gave me the knapsack. Adelante! my mama said,
Adelante!
On the path ahead your child finds six-year-old
Carlos shot in the testicles, a puppy whimpering in the dumb voice of
helplessness. Now your child improvises: she is you, she is a
mother she is the church She is thirteen years old. Come Carlos,
I must carry you. The soldiers are closing in. ...
Carlos and his father Return to Valleverde to dig
your grave. The child says: It took us a week to find
Mama. We wore bandanas for the stench. ...
That is the month your oldest daughter packed her
knapsack, kissed her sisters, and walked toward Guazapa.
Adelante! she told them and left.
Ostmaro Caceres was killed in 1982. Golden walked a long day
through the countryside with a guide who knew how to circumvent the military
checkpoints to meet Caceres father.
In front of the priests house, The old man
touches my arm, whispers: They came through both doors, He was not
ordained a month. I warned him.
Even an oft-told story shines more brilliantly in her telling.
The executioners -- Sergeant Avalos, (nicknamed
Satan) and Private Oscar Amaya -- step forward, lift AK-47s
into firing position. One last voice is heard. It is Nacho
Martin-Baro. He does not beg. Shouts last judgment: This is
barbaric! Nothing more. Close rang AK-47s split craniums
fragile as porcelain.
The woman, M16 on shoulder, kisses her child in the cradle.
Good-bye, hijo, I say, Your grandmother
will sing to you until I return, or dont.
And the indomitable courage of the women.
Suddenly, up from the riverbed, a wave of mothers
appears, their children with pear-shaped stomachs full of worms. The
refugees of Usulatan. They arrange themselves under leaves of ceiba and
eucalyptus, their only protection from low-flying bombers ...
One guitar wails a ranchera. Their voices are
full in that dense emerald house. Oh my friends, the song winging through
the arcs of that forsaken wood was a song of thanksgiving
to God, who has accompanied us, always.
So what has Golden learned? I have learned, she tells
us, that insurgent hope, even in the midst of hideous repression, is a
weapon that the powerful always underestimate.
Gary MacEoin may be reached at gmaceoin@cs.com
National Catholic Reporter, May 5,
2000
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