Rubén Darío, died 6 February 1916
Something I never knew about Darío was that he was “dissed” by Don Porfirio when he arrived as part of the Nicaraguan delegation sent to the centennial celebrations. Ostensibly, the reason was the Nicaraguan government had changed … “thanks” to a U.S. intervention (one of a continuing series up until the Sandanista Revolution). In reality, it seems that while the Díaz regime was playing off one great power against another, it had no intention of giving even a whiff of approval to anti-U.S. sentiment. Ironically, given Dario’s popularity — not just among intellectuals, but among the people themselves — convinced Porfirio to offer the Nicaraguan poet a sinecure with the Mexican Department of Education: as long as he worked in Europe, and away from the Americas.
Maybe this is what bothered Don Porfirio:
(translated by Bonnie Frederick):
It is with the voice of the Bible, or the verse of Walt Whitman,
that I should come to you, Hunter,
primitive and modern, simple and complicated,
with something of Washington and more of Nimrod.
You are the United States,
you are the future invader
of the naive America that has Indian blood,
that still prays to Jesus Christ and still speaks Spanish.
You are the proud and strong exemplar of your race;
you are cultured, you are skillful; you oppose Tolstoy.
And breaking horses, or murdering tigers,
you are an Alexander-Nebuchadnezzar.
(You are a professor of Energy
as today’s madmen say.)
You think that life is fire,
that progress is eruption,
that wherever you shoot
you hit the future.
The United States is potent and great.
When you shake there is a deep tremblor
that passes through the enormous vertebrae of the Andes.
If you clamor, it is heard like the roaring of a lion.
Hugo already said it to Grant: The stars are yours.
(The Argentine sun, ascending, barely shines,
and the Chilean star rises…) You are rich.
You join the cult of Hercules to the cult of Mammon,
and illuminating the road of easy conquest,
Liberty raises its torch in New York.
But our America, that has had poets
since the ancient times of Netzahualcoyotl,
that has walked in the footprints of great Bacchus
who learned Pan’s alphabet at once;
that consulted the stars, that knew Atlantis
whose resounding name comes to us from Plato,
that since the remote times of its life
has lived on light, on fire, on perfume, on love,
America of the great Montezuma, of the Inca,
the fragrant America of Christopher Columbus,
Catholic America, Spanish America,
the America in which noble Cuahtemoc said:
“I’m not in a bed of roses”; that America
that trembles in hurricanes and lives on love,
it lives, you men of Saxon eyes and barbarous soul.
And it dreams. And it loves, and it vibrates, and it is the daughter of the Sun.
Be careful. Viva Spanish America!
There are a thousand cubs loosed from the Spanish lion.
Roosevelt, one would have to be, through God himself,
the-fearful Rifleman and strong Hunter,
to manage to grab us in your iron claws.
And, although you count on everything, you lack one thing: God!