Crossroads

If you could capture the now

Freeze it in captivity

What dour changes would you find

Trapped in the barbs of history?

The earth is rumbling under force of new feet

The dirt is shifting to the east

The withered stalks bow to a new breeze

There's a grind we can feel in all our bones

A foreign tongue has a leash on the land

The Queen’s English has kind hands around our throats

Giving up on trying to make us change

Instead they gift us with new signs and new names

The outsiders come to measure our words

Tailor our sounds to suit their intentions

Preoccupied with the pleasantries of a quiet conversion

Yet with the determined dignity of an Empire’s will

Some have the awkward grace of respect

The Saxon desire imbued in their work

To breathe in the smoke of Ireland’s fire

But we must look them in the eye down the barrel of a gun

What will they find, dismantling our land

A place drowsy with its own beauty

Drenched in culture, soaked in silent sameness

Lame after years of dreaming its own existence

All the lessons we’ve taught ourselves

In the houses of wisdom buried in the dirt

All to be smothered by the wave of new words

A premature funeral march for the soon dead languages

Language we have, but never a voice

The constant medley of stagnant progress

Parnell, O’Connell, the mystical echoes of Wolfe Tone

We listen to all, thus now we are confusedly deaf

Some find the new voices suit their ears

And their tongues were made for the modern talk

Now they rise with the sun, and bow to The East

And have washed their mouths out with English soap

Others see futures as theirs to construct

Breaking the chains of Irish self

Demanding the proud progression of sea

Away from the rotting stalks and browning green

Yet Ireland’s change is departing its home

And stubborn roots refuse to be pulled

Either blinding ourselves as to not see their sense

Or furiously drawing blood from the foreign hand that feeds

So here we all stand, at crossroads divisive

The edge of The West, the middle of nowhere, the centre of the battle for the world

The Irish may depart on the roads they want to see

But, where then, will Ireland be?

by Halligan Quin

Between God, Pointy Hats and Ghosts – an analysis on magical realism

“It was as if God had decided to put to the test every capacity for surprise and was keeping the inhabitants of Macondo in a permanent alternation between excitement and disappointment, doubt and revelation, to such an extreme that no one knew for certain where the limits of reality lay. It was an intricate stew of truths and mirages that convulsed the ghost of José Arcadio Buendía with impatience and made him wander all through the house even in broad daylight.” – One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez

Mislabeling is present in all realms of our present world, mostly due to commonly accepted paradigms that seem to permeate through time without the slightest discussion they deserve. Today’s dish? Magical realism. I read lots of what is considered world literature (which is a ridiculous label in the first place because isn’t everything world literature?) and I found that many Latin-American books, African books, and Indian books are labeled or “tagged” (I don’t really get this whole tagging business) under the “magical realism” genre on amazon.com or shelfari.com, not to mention in many classrooms around the European/American world. Words aren’t just bundles of letters that simplify our communication, they have much more power than people realize: they shape the way we see the world, and allow us to take control or attempt to take control of ideas. It’s as if giving something a name makes it somehow tangible, it is no longer something unknown, something to fear. Ultimately magical realism seems like it’s a prettier word for the term “pagan”. And by calling it so the western world could understand and cease to fear this reality. By calling it magical, the premise of it being really real is excluded. The ever-fearing Christians can once again sleep in peace, being assured that there are no such things as ghosts and spirits.

As if Christ resurrected is totally normal and realistic, but a ghost wandering through the house is somehow more farfetched and “magical”. Realism and reality are such perspective based ideas, especially when addressing abstract issues and ideas. But, as usual, one viewpoint must prevail. (A “one ring to rule them all” motif, so to speak). So any book reference to Noah’s Ark and the gazillion animals that magically fit into it, Mary being a virgin (who are we trying to kid?), and the sea splitting open is fine. But healing men, water spirits and foreshadowing isn’t. This is all so 1500s, ships, Jesuits and the whole shebang setting out to colonize and cathequise the natives. Must we still live under this eye-blinding, neck-stifling viewpoint? Is it really necessary? Any post-colonial country has issues with trying to regain its own identity. These places are places full of contradictions and mixes. Places where language is a muddle up somewhere in between the colonizing language and the native language, where religion is a mesh of “pagan” beliefs and Christianity. It isn’t magical realism, it is a very complex and intricate historical process. It seems as though the west has been condemned to Five Hundred Years of Solitude and has therefore been impeded to recognize and accept this whole world out there and its adjacent set of ideas.

To me, magical realism is something along the lines of Harry Potter and Lord of the Rings, it has nothing to do with tradition (though maybe with some unhealthy overgrown nerdy men cult) and everything to do with magic – wands, pointy hats and even flying brooms. Now, what is categorized under the Magical Realism definition is hardly “magical”, it’s maybe mythical (but isn’t everything?) and very much cultural. It is tradition being passed on through literature. It is characteristic postcolonial catholic-animistic-spiritual amalgam. It is the western world trying to make sense of something they fear and do not understand; trying to gain control over something that perceive as exotic and that offers no rigid structure. The so-called pagan world is much more fluid and organic, less certain but much more exciting. For future reference, perhaps, magical realism should be labeled and tagged and defined as anything written under the influence of magic mushrooms as. And also whatever Tom Cruise says when he goes off on a scientology rant.

by Mariana R.