Day of the Imprisoned Writer: Writings

The following were written by Melissa Patiño during her imprisonment, in March 2008 (the WiPC is grateful to Catalina Parra and Ronald Christ for their translation).

Day Four
My new life has brought me to beating in the form of an embryo or a world. I am interconnected with every human being's embryo, I saw all the embryos' hearts. I felt them beat to the rhythm of my method, and I have had to enter into crisis because I didn't know what else to do.

My new existence lent me its sturdy shoulder and showed me its flabby torso. It consoled me, showing me its face and in that face the most inflamed hearts and in them thousands of sweating, distinct faces. And in them mine, so different from my former life, leaning on the shoulder of my new one.

My new life seated me before it, named me honorary guardian of the beat. Do I deserve that? How can my tiny beat beat in order to keep others safe? Keep up beat's rhythm and its show of passion? Keep up the regular beat and the cardiac symptoms of guilt? Who's guilty? "Love others as you love yourself." I closed my eyes and saw the world like an embryo at the point of aborting.

Day Five
The changes my new life leads me into are always a surprise. Always so flirtatious, like a girl of twenty who is guilty of keeping the beat. Always so wise, like a girl of twenty days imprisonment, running so as to not believe anything.

My new life is preparing me for something big, I know it. She tries to shake me free of fears and the wall's wise advice. Recalls me to obligatory amnesia in order to submit. My new life has aged me quickly, because it has wearied me. Will I be able to rest after day five?

I can't feel grief alongside my new life, although I continue in crisis, the tears are to cure the inflammation of my cheeks.

Today my newest life has taken charge of the fainting from a melody that kissed my brow and it has lain down with me to count beats. During this night time I will review a few hearts before going to sleep.

Day Six
I awoke today with my face lit up by dust/powder. It's a day that promises entirely new air. My new life tore off the sheets in one pull, shook my face, and touched my body in preparation. I went running to fetch the breakfast she ordered at the prison's reception desk: coffee, papaya juice, and scrambled eggs.

We'll go to visit your father, she told me, and my eyes broke: it's been a long time that I haven't known how to find him. It's been a long time since my father forgot my eyes, broken now and dirty. How are we going to be able to find him? He is waiting for us, today is visitors day.

(Translation © 2008 Lumen Books/Helen Lane Editions)

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Night in Lhasa

BY WOESER (translated from the Chinese, translator unknown)

Lhasa! an imaginary night
A few lotus flowers never blooming
A few glasses easily broken
A few people, this demeanor given by
whom, make the flowing feast
a paradise of self-exile
Those unseen torrential tears
are only for a loved one who cannot stay

Lhasa! a sorrowful night
A few bluebirds never singing
A few coats covered with dust
A few people, these diseases spread by
whom, make the fleeting moments
pools of drowned self-expression
Those innumerable bewitching images
cannot call back a lost loved one!

Lhasa! a rare night
A few affections never arriving
A few bloodlines gradually intermixed
A few people, like what kind of
lightning, make the overarching pre-ordinances
the fated chance of affinitive coalescence
Yet, amidst that never ending transformation
I wish you will ever be my loved one!

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The following is an excerpt from the opening scenes of The Crocodile of Zambezi, by Raisedon Baya and Chrisopher Mlalazi:

2008

"The year of fear"

SCENE I
A prison. Outside his cell a man can be seen walking about. His name is I. He picks a jerry can, gets some water and waters a pot plant. A prison guard can be seen keeping guard outside. He is heavily armed. The guard walks with a limp. His face is unfriendly. The prisoner and guard don't look at each other though they are very much aware of each other's presence. A cock crows from a distance. Once. Twice. A new day has begun. A siren wails from within the complex. The man coughs. The cough is severe. He spits. The guard also spits, away from the prisoner. I looks old, exhausted and worn out. He sits down. Another bout of coughing attacks him.

I: Prison is a form of sanction
Against flesh and the soul
It is not a place to seek truth
But a place to die a thousands deaths
It is not a place to be born in
Certainly not a place to dream about.

I've been here since independence
Prison garb and shaven head
Four cracking walls and a cold floor
My name a mere number
Purposeless tasks my daily routine
Made lonelier by rules against singing and talking

I am here
I have been here
I will always be here
Because my name is Conscience
And will not allow or watch
My people's honor and dignity
Kicked and trampled.

My name is Conscience.

[....]

SCENE 2
A railway station platform. The train is parked on the platform. There is commotion. Ribbons of different colours and placards with "Happy Birthday His Excellency" decorate the platform. The place is dimly lit. A police man in full uniform, baton stick in hand, gun visible in its holster, handcuffs dangling from his belt, paces about, inspecting the platform. The train whistles, once and then twice. It is ready to go. I, now in white clothes appears running. He looks exhausted. His pot plant is still held in his hand.

[I is refused entry to the Crocodile's birthday train. A POET then tries to gain entry; the GUARD also bars his way.]

GUARD 2: (chuckling) I'm sorry but the list says in big bold black letters:
NO POETS, NO WRITERS, NO STORY TELLERS, NO JOURNALISTS WORKING FOR THE FOREIGN MEDIA, NO GAYS OR LESBIANS, AND NO MEMBERS OF THE OPPOSITION OR REPRESENTATIVES OF CIVIC GROUPS MEDDLING IN POLITICS. I think that's clear enough.

POET: But why bar artists?

GUARD 2: They are big mouths for one, and shameless.