A Few Notes on Salomón de la Selva

It is simply not part of my culture to preserve notes. I have never heard of a writer preserving his early drafts.
Naguib Mahfouz

Among mortals second thoughts are wisest.
Euripides


I recently read Frederick Kempe’s Divorcing the Dictator: America’s Bungled Affair with Noriega, which appeared in print in 1990. My good friend, Benjamin Murphy, loaned me this account of the backdoor dealings between various White House administrations and General Manuel Antonio Noriega.

In Chapter Three, titled “The Abandoned Child,” Kempe details Noriega’s childhood and adolescence. Early in the chapter, Kempe, referring to Noriega while in high school, writes:

“Friends remember him as a young man who would read books and write poetry when other students were wasting time or playing games. He was always serious, not given to much laughter. His writings and poetry were sappy and emotional.

“One poem, unearthed from his high school years, reveals his odd intellect. It is a love poem to a bullet.

The Bullet with a Soul

The bullet that will wound me
will be a bullet with a soul

And the soul of that bullet
will be like a rose,
if flowers could sing
or like topaz
if stones had a smell

If I am shot in the brain,
then it will say to me
that it wanted to explore my thoughts

And if it sears my breast,
then tenderly, if will say to me
that it looked to know
the beatings of my heart

The bullet that wounds me
will be your love”

I smiled when I read this product of Noriega’s “odd intellect” for, despite the dreadful translation, what the high school student who would one day become Panamá’s strongman had jotted down in his notebook were not verses of his own creation, but the work of Salomón de la Selva. The Nicaraguan author wrote “La bala” (The Bullet) based on his experiences as a soldier in the British army—during World War I.

Here’s the original, in Spanish, and as a young Manuel Antonio Noriega copied it in his notebook:

La Bala

La bala que me hiera
será bala con alma.
El alma de esa bala
será como sería
la canción de una rosa
si las flores cantaran,
o el olor de un topacio
si las piedras olieran,
o la piel de una música
si nos fuese posible
tocar a las canciones
desnudas con las manos.

Si me hiere el cerebro
me dirá: Yo buscaba
sondear tu pensamiento.
Y si me hiere el pecho
me dirá: ¡Yo quería
decirte que te quiero!

Perhaps the mistake would’ve amused De la Selva, but I doubt that he would’ve enjoyed seeing his verses—which in essence is a desperate search for love amid the horrors of war—attributed to a notorious dictator.

* * * *

In writing scholarly work, more so than in fiction, where I have more control, there are several statements I’d love to be able to take back and rewrite. One such instance is found in my introduction to De la Selva’s Tropical Town and Other Poems.

The meaning of the poem “The Modern Eve” was, I believed, impenetrable. I shared this work with several colleagues, all men, and, combining my interpretation with theirs, I concluded the following: “‘The Modern Eve’ exalts the strength of woman. Her power is portrayed as eternal, and she is unafraid of death. While the male is hungry and selfish, the woman carries deep within her immovable confidence in the future and in her status as an inexhaustible fountain of life.”

About a year after the publication of my edition of Tropical Town, friends who are members of the Unitarian-Universalist Fellowship in Boone, North Carolina, organized a group reading of De la Selva’s English-language poems. As we deliberated which pieces should be read and by whom, I shared “The Modern Eve” with several of the women participating in the event and asked them if they could decipher this poem, which remained an enigma to me. One of them, a retired English teacher, read the poem and immediately said, “Oh, it’s easy. This is a poem about abortion.” And then she passed it to the other women, who readily agreed. I was stunned—first because of the topic, and second because they figured out the poem’s significance so effortlessly. And when I read the piece, now for the hundredth time, with their interpretation in mind, the meaning suddenly became very clear. And my respect for De la Selva, who wrote about a difficult topic in such an elegant way, grew. Here’s the piece:

The Modern Eve

So finely had they thrilled, in lusty fire
The sturdy metals of their flesh became
One single molten heap of glowing flame,
And like a flame they heaved until desire,
Cooling with many shivers and long breath,
Left them aweary on that Autumn hill;
And suddenly they noticed it was chill,
And morning dawning, and she thought of death.
“If it should be,” she thought, “then it must die!”
So scorned the man where selfishly he lay,
A used, exhausted thing under the sky;
And plucked a pear and ate it hungrily,
And did not fear the coming of the day:
Her child was twenty fathoms undersea.

Chilling verses about a chilling topic. And I frequently wish that I could have another chance to mend my erred, and insipid, commentary.

* * * *

In the May 25, 2007 edition of El Nuevo Diario, one of Nicaragua’s leading newspapers, there’s an article written by Jorge Eduardo Arellano, perhaps the most noted—and certainly the most prolific—literary critic in Nicaragua’s history, titled: “Hacia la momificación de Don Sal.” The article reviews the second edition of the Antología Mayor de Salomón de la Selva. The anthology was edited by Julio Valle-Castillo, my favorite living Nicaraguan poet.

Arellano’s article briefly mentions my small contribution toward reviving interest in De la Selva’s English-language poetry: “Celebro esta nueva publicación, cuyo mérito principal consiste en reproducir el texto íntegro de Tropical Town and Other Poems (1918), que solo una vez Silvio Sirias—un californiano de padres nicas—había revalorado y difundido (Houston, Texas, Arte Público Press, 1999), en la serie ‘Recovering the U.S. Hispanic Literary Heritage’: ‘Rescatando la herencia literaria hispana de los Estados Unidos.’”

I’m obliged to admit that I find Jorge Eduardo Arellano’s acknowledgment of my effort, although somewhat oblique, quite an honor.

Salomón and Me

Every writer "creates" his own precursors. His work modifies our conception of the past, as it will modify the future.
Jorge Luis Borges


Sometimes, when I’m in an unguarded, mystical mood, I can make myself believe—almost—that I’m the reincarnation of Salomón de la Selva, a Nicaraguan writer and poet. But, then, to be the rebirth of De la Selva would be impossible because I was four years old when he passed away.

The feeling that I’m connected to Salomón de la Selva dates back to when I was nine years old. My family and I were visiting Nicaragua—two years before we moved there—and I was riding in the back seat of a car, traveling from Granada to Managua. On the radio a program detailed the life of this Nicaraguan poet, novelist, and essayist. (In Nicaragua—the land of Rubén Darío—where poets are revered, Salomón is a stalwart member of that nation’s literary pantheon.)

That night, I had an unusual dream. In it, when my parents and I arrived in Managua, as soon as we stepped out of the car, Salomón de la Selva was there to greet us. A distinguished looking man, he introduced himself, wished us well, turned around, and walked away. That was it, but the dream remains vivid to this day.

In subsequent years, during my Nicaraguan adolescence, I frequently heard De la Selva being discussed in adult conversations and in the media—always with reverence and referred to as one of Nicaragua’s most notable intellects. Oddly, even though I’d never read a single poem of his—his work at the time was difficult to obtain—the idea of Salomón de la Selva somehow captivated me, and in spite of knowing very little about his legacy, I held him in high esteem and felt that, somehow, because of that dream, we were connected.

Many years later, while a doctoral student at the University of Arizona, I was looking into Nicaragua’s literary history when a footnote caught my attention. It mentioned that De la Selva’s earliest work was a collection of poetry—written in English—that was published in New York City, in 1918, by the John Lane Company: Tropical Town and Other Poems.

I was stunned to learn that De la Selva’s first known work was in English. For all the talk about him in Nicaragua, not once did I hear anyone mention that he spoke English, let alone wrote in that language.

I made a mental note of the existence of the book, but being in the middle of the tortuous work of completing the doctorate, I never got around to borrowing a copy of this now intriguing tome.

Several years later, with the doctorate now done and while teaching at Appalachian State University, in North Carolina, I received a flyer in the mail calling for grant proposals for a project called Recovering the U.S. Hispanic Literary Heritage. Through the interlibrary loan department I requested a copy of Tropical Town to see if De la Selva’s first work fit the parameters of the recovery’s plan. (Getting a hold of Tropical Town was a challenge for the librarians at Appalachian State, for only a handful copies survived.)

As I read De la Selva’s work for the first time my hands started to tremble; I realized almost at once that I was holding the first collection of English-language poetry written by someone of Latin American heritage to be published in the United States. What’s more, at that moment, I was certain that I was the only person on the planet to view Tropical Town and Other Poems from this perspective.

I crafted a proposal, which was funded, and after examining De la Selva’s life and poetry for close to a year I wrote a study that highlights the influence of Rubén Darío and Edna St. Vincent Millay, De la Selva’s close friend, on the Nicaraguan’s English language poetry.

After submitting my findings, Arte Público Press decided to publish, eighty years after the original appeared in print, a second edition of Tropical Town and Other Poems—and my study serves as the introduction to this edition.

(As an aside: Two poems from Tropical Town are included in The New Anthology Of American Poetry: Modernisms: 1900-1950. This means that Salomón de la Selva is also being recognized as an “American” poet.)

And, now, although I’m positive that I’m not Salomón de la Selva’s reincarnation, I know that my name will be linked to his, if only for a few years, thanks to my suggestion that this Nicaraguan is, indeed, a forerunner of Latina and Latino writers in the United States today.

On Winning the Chicano/Latino Literary Prize

Don't worry when you are not recognized, but strive to be worthy of recognition.
Abraham Lincoln


The manuscript of my second novel, Meet Me Under the Ceiba, won first place in this year’s Chicano/Latino Literary Prize—an event sponsored by the Department of Spanish and Portuguese of the University of California in Irvine. The contest, currently in its thirty-third year, is the longest running showcase for Chicano and Latino writers in the United States.

I completed Meet Me Under the Ceiba two and a half years ago and, for reasons beyond my control, the novel had been unable to find a publisher.

During this time, as I waited—rather patiently, I might add—for something uplifting to happen with regard to the manuscript, I learned that it’s rather awkward to write, or talk, for that matter, of one’s completed but unpublished work. And that’s because I, and perhaps other writers as well, dread hearing the question most people are thinking but are too polite to express:

“If your novel is as good as you say, why hasn’t it been published?”

Because of the uncomfortable void that surrounds a work that’s in limbo, I stopped talking about Ceiba long ago, even among friends. I could always talk or write about Bernardo and the Virgin, which found its way into print; and I can always go on about my current obsession, The Saint of Santa Fe. But Meet Me Under the Ceiba had lingered around for too long, beyond the stage where discussing a completed work was still cute. So the novel became something I seldom brought up, much less wrote about.

But now, thanks to the Chicano/Latino Literary Prize, Meet Me Under the Ceiba, which had become, through lack of attention, an ugly duckling, has been recognized as a work of merit. Nothing could make me happier, and for this I am most thankful to Juan Bruce-Novoa, organizer of the contest, and Rolando Hinojosa-Smith, the judge who made the final selection.

I had mailed the manuscript to California back in May of this year. And writers, to keep our sanity, soon learn to place all submitted work out of our minds—there’s nothing more maddening that checking one’s email every day in the hope of a positive answer—and move on to other projects. That’s exactly what I did.

When October finally rolled around—the month the winner was scheduled to be announced—I initiated a ritual of lighting two candles before my image of La Virgen de Cuapa (the other “character” of Bernardo and the Virgin) to request her intercession on my behalf.

But that was the only time I reflected upon the contest as the chaos of my regular workday helped keep thoughts of the competition at bay.

Because of this, when an email appeared in my inbox on the afternoon of Wednesday, October 24, with the title “Congratulations,” and the addressee being the Chicano/Latino Literary Prize, it took a while before I fell into a delightful state of shock—that is after I read the message several times to make sure it wasn’t a hoax.

And then, with seemingly lightning speed, I was on a plane bound for California to receive the award.

In Irvine I had the pleasure of being the center of attention for a day, having exquisite hosts, and the honor of meeting, as well as having delightful conversations, with Rolando Hinojosa-Smith and Juan Bruce-Novoa—writers whose work I’ve admired for years.

At the reading the audience was most receptive, and I had an absolutely wonderful time behind the podium, reciting a small portion of a work that’s close to my heart and that now, thanks to the prize, can step out of the shadows.

And the best part?

Today, with an interested publisher, I can start talking and writing about a creation that has been kept under wraps for a long time: Meet Me Under the Ceiba.

The Man Who Would Be Zeppelin—Barrie James (B J) Wilson: March 18, 1947 to October 8, 1990

(I’m posting this piece while on the campus of the University of California in Irvine, where later today my novel Meet Me Under the Ceiba will receive the 33^rd Annual Chicano/Latino Literary Prize. The posting has nothing to do with my being here. Instead, I’d like to pay tribute to one of the best musicians I’ve ever heard: BJ Wilson. Normally, I don’t pay much attention to drummers, as most of them, I believe, are not much more than glorified timekeepers. But BJ Wilson is an exception. His playing is often unpredictable, yet it fits a song’s time-signature beautifully. Moreover, the way in which BJ leaves gaps, or fills them, helps make the work of Procol Harum adventurous to listen to, even today. His death, at the early age of forty-three, went largely unnoticed. But for those of us who loved his drumming, the loss is irreplaceable).

I like to be rude when I play the drums.
B J Wilson

I'd never seen a drummer sit so low. The seat of his stool stood only a few inches above the ground. Because of this, he had to extend his arms upward to reach his arsenal of percussive instruments, making him look like a little boy at play. Yet, BJ Wilson, on the last performance in which I saw him and the rest of Procol Harum on stage, was entirely in command as he kept his bandmates and the Los Angeles Symphony Orchestra moving forward at a steady pace during their 1973 Hollywood Bowl appearance.

The image engraved in my mind is of B J Wilson often smiling—he was obviously having a terrific time playing for the packed audience.

There are two widely circulated stories about BJ that I find fascinating. The first tale takes place during the recording of Joe Cocker’s classic rendition of “With a Little Help from My Friends.” Steve Winwood and Jim Capaldi, who then formed part of Traffic, had been asked to play guitar and drums respectively on that track. And although they were supremely talented musicians, take after take they failed to get the waltz feel that Joe Cocker and producer Denny Cordell were searching for. Sources close to that recording session say that Capaldi never quite got the ¾ timing.

“I want a mood similar to that of Procol Harum in ‘A Whiter Shade of Pale,’” Cordell kept urging the musicians.

But after thirty-five unsuccessful takes, the producer threw his hands up in despair and called off the sessions for the remainder of the day.

As Cordell sat in the control booth, fearing that he would never be able to capture the arrangement he could hear so clearly in his head, someone—who’s name sadly remains unrecorded in the annals of rock history—suggested, “If you want the track to sound like ‘A Whiter Shade of Pale,’ you should ask BJ Wilson to play.”

(The irony is that another drummer played on the studio version of “A Whiter Shade of Pale,” which had been recorded prior to BJ joining Procol Harum.)

Cordell followed the sage counsel and contacted BJ who, fortunately, was free the next day. Then Cordell called Jimmy Page—who at the time was about to put together a group that would go on to become Led Zeppelin—to play guitar. The following day, after a handful of practice runs, Cordell turned on the tape machine and, after only a couple of takes, had the foundation of what would go on to become a classic recording—made possible, in large part, by BJ Wilson’s drumming.

When listening to Cocker’s version of the Beatles’ song, one needs to pay close attention to the gradual crescendo of the drums during the introduction; then to the great open space BJ makes available for Joe’s magnificent vocals to grasp the listener’s attention fully; and then revel in the orchestrated grand style that BJ’s drumming provides for the remainder of the track.

Not bad for a day’s work.

The second anecdote is a tribute to the high esteem in which one highly regarded musician held BJ’s talent. When Jimmy Page began to assemble Led Zeppelin, he had only one person in mind to sit behind the drums: BJ Wilson. Several times the now legendary guitarist invited BJ to join the new venture, perhaps promising that he could play as rudely as he wished, but well aware that Procol Harum’s drummer would give the music of Page’s nascent group the feeling of grandeur he was after.

But BJ, loyal until the end to the music of Procol Harum, turned down the opportunity of a lifetime. And Led Zeppelin, instead of becoming a progressive, largely cerebral group, became hard-driving thanks to the relentless beat of John Bonham’s drumming.

A question, then, that shall always remain without answer is: what would have Led Zeppelin sounded like if BJ Wilson had been sitting behind the drum kit? The smallest of hints can be found in Cocker’s “With a Little Help from My Friends.”

But BJ turned down certain fame and fortune to remain with a group he believed in. And BJ was certainly responsible for much of Procol Harum’s sound. His majestic, off-beat punctuations; his percussive flourishes; his rolling reversals of rhythm; and his frequent use of the cowbell—a trademark of BJ's that drummers seldom, if ever, use today—still sound wonderful nearly forty years after they were recorded.

Barrie James Wilson was the combination of power and passion—with an element of surprise around every corner. His drumming has been called “literary.” I like this term, for BJ’s work often provides a song with the ebb and flow of a well-constructed narrative. What’s more, in the stories BJ recorded with Procol Harum from 1967 through 1977, his drumming is responsible, in large part, for making the band’s music timeless, as well as magical.