AZZOPARDI : AN
EARLY ASSESSMENT (1970)
The modern literary movement in
The following is an excerpt on
Mario Azzopardi which appeared under Beaudoin’s signature
in The Old Hickory Review
(1970), published as part of the coordinated Arts Program in
“Though a relatively small group of islands with a land area smaller than that of Shelby County, and a population of only 300,000 Malta is a land with a long history, reaching back into the European Megalithic period when between 2000 BC and 1300 BC a Megalithic culture flourished there, leaving the remains of great Megalithic temples to mystify the later inhabitants because of their resemblance to the ancient remains at Stonehenge.
And again Malta nurtured another culture when during the Crusades and until Malta was taken by Napoleon at the beginning of the 19th Century Malta and its strategic ports were the Headquarters of the Knights of St John of Jerusalem, the Knights Hospitaliers , and while they were in residence Malta became a melting pot for people from all over the world. And as the anthropologist Linton says, when peoples come in contact with each other, anywhere, they may fight, or they may not; they may change due to contact or they may not; but one thing that they can be depended on to do is interbreed.
Since the
defeat of Napoleon at
And this, of course, is part of the delight of reading the new Maltese poet, who is usually bi-lingual and can translate his own poems from Maltese into English. The other delight to be derived from their poetry is to be able to observe how close in spirit they are to ourselves, and to realize in the last analysis how much real spiritual unit there is in all of the Western World.
One of the
most brilliant of the Maltese poets, is Mario
Azzopardi, a Maltese teacher, poet, associated as well with Maltese
theatre. In such poems as When the light goes down, I believe he
captures the “esprit” of contemporary
when the light goes down
and the crucifix above my bed yawns
the sleep and the ennui of a fruitless redemption
I hear the rocks of my soul creaking
in terror
and I have nightmares of my life
a stream of sour wine
appollo 10 a metallic prophet heralding heights
scratching the feet of the proud kingdom
but the faint flicker of light
dances helplessly throwing cross-eyed negatives
on the walls of my butchered soul.
when the light goes down
and the crucifix above my head yawns
dishearteningly with every new moon
I hear myself drawing deep breaths of suffocation
I entangle myself
a primitive embryo
biting its knees
Here we have a
new group of people using English to my mind more freshly, evocatively than many
other groups of poets using the language. Here on an old island whose poets are
tied to its rocky landscape and ancient history we find poets who are a bit
confused, a bit fearful, questioning their ancient gods, and looking into a
storm future just as we find poets in