The Anthology of A True Romanticist

The Green Book of Che-One of the last possessions of the world's greatest revolutionary was released by the Bolivian authorities (namely President Evo Morales) as Argentina declared Che to be their greatest historical figure. This is an anthology that inspired Che's profound romanticist conviction. 

The notebook was merely a cheap spiraled notebook Che bought during his stay in the Congo in 1963. His recess from the revolution was to retire on a tree and write emotional poems that dealt with politics. The poems include 69 poems are by some by Chilean Pablo Neruda, one of the greatest Spanish-language poets of the 20th century, Cuban Nicolas Guillen and Peruvian Cesar Vallejo.

Che needed to put this anthology of his favorite poetry since carrying books in the Bolivian campaign was an impossibility. 

The release of the Green Book of love poetry is evidence that as one his last two possessions, Che was true romanticist who lived and died in romance. Che's passion for poetry was limited, as he humbly admits. He tried to write poetry but protested that it was unaccomplished. This is reassuring as I am a tragedy when trying to emulate the poetry of the likes of Rumi, Wordsworth, El-Khayam, and Coleridge. 

The notebook is only more evidence that love is the catalyst behind any revolutionary soul. It is in this spirit that it pleasures me to submerge myself into poetry every now and then. In any case, a sneak peak from Che's green book is a poem by Cesar Vallejo titled The Black Heralds and it reads as follows:

There are blows in life, so powerful . . . I don’t know!
Blows as from the hatred of God; as if, facing them,
the undertow of everything suffered
welled up in the soul . . . I don’t know!

They are few; but they are . . . They open dark trenches
in the fiercest face and in the strongest back.
Perhaps they are the colts of barbaric Attilas;
or the black heralds sent to us by Death.

They are the deep falls of the Christs of the soul,
of some adored faith blasphemed by Destiny.
Those bloodstained blows are the crackling of
bread burning up at the oven door.

And man . . . Poor . . . poor! He turns his eyes, as
when a slap on the shoulder summons us;
turns his crazed eyes, and everything lived
wells up, like a pool of guilt, in his look.

There are blows in life, so powerful . . . I don’t know!