Monday, May 6, 2013

The Lady Llorona  (La Llorona)


    i

The Lady Llorona
passes near here –
    Beware!
my Dear Son,
of the Crocodile Tears.

Take “No!” 
for your answer.
    Tenga Cuidado!
Como se dice –
    “Watch out for this Lady.”

I will give you a tale,
    it’s high-time you knew,
of the Modern Medea,
    Dark Angel of Hell.

I’ve waited ‘til now,
    but Now’s overdue –
Fruition and Prudence,
    first needed of you.


    ii

You have heard the sounds
  a large part of Life,
sounds that rise from El Grande –
  A River much like
the Nile to its Land:
  The River of Promise,
El Rio Grande.

So listen much closely,
  you’ll hear it clear,
the wailing and crying,
  a stream of ghost tears.

La Señora Llorona
  wanders near here,
throughout the night,
  every day, every year.

The story of Grief
  and the Torment she bears
become of what follows
  from here:


    iii

Years upon years,
    many years, long ago,
lived once La Señora
    of New Mexico.

So fair was the maiden,
    far fairer, unknown.
Yet she loved but one man,
    and one man alone.

Dom Juan San Diego,
    un grand Caballero.
So fond of young women
    was this grand inamorato.

And the Lady Llorona
  se dice Hermosa.
Muy Linda
  this Lady
of New Mexico.

But the Lady Llorona
was married to plan –
    Los Patrones had sanctioned
    an elderly man.

His cause, her beauty;
  hers, the duty:
a young wife
  to the Life 
of Tradition.


    iv

El Señor, 
  a fortunate man,
un hombre muy suerte.
  For he’d won the hand,
la maña encantada,
  of the lady,
La Señora Llorona.

And felicity wrought.
Good fortune it brought
A el Señor,
    for his love 
        of the Lady.

Of their children amassed,
    tres came to pass –
un hijo y double las hijas.

Y el Señor never knew
that the Lady held true
to brujeria, 
and the bruja’s mysteria.

For years upon end
good luck she would spin
for herself, for her friends, 
and her familia.


    v

And all went quite well
‘til the day that befell
el Señor, when compelled
to travel a distance for business.

Not until his return
  was it that he learned
of Dom Diego
  and Llorona’s love interest.

For both had demurred
  to love, and concurred
a las citas 
    secretas 
        amores.

La Senora Llorona
  fell for amora,
in Dom Juan San Diego, 
  el novio nuevo
de ella Senora, 
  La Llorona.


    vi

And Love has its way,
  ensares every day,
by insatiable desire
  with fire.

The demiurge at play,
  here he had his sway
on two bodies;
  the souls he acquired.

Though choice is a way,
  but only one way,
responsible action requires
  to ward off desires
the demiurge transpires –
  Beware! 
  of the demiurge 
  at play.

Dom Juan San Diego
  embodied the fuego
La Señor Llorona
  fell into.

And the Fire still burned,
  long after one spurned,
when Dom Diego abandoned
  and run.

All the damage done spent,
  her flame did relent;
and off, then,
  to El Paso
he went.


    vii

Cold Air returns
  o’er that which it burns;
but the spark that remains
  o’er all which has changed,
reminds all the same
  and retains.

Bereft and besotten
  she felt over-wroughten
by the light that enlivened,
  now gone! 
but still unforgotten.

And the Burden got darker;
  heavier, starker.
The weight of self-sorrow
  was wasting away
all Resolve to Recover.

    O!    Piteous Lover!

The Torment grew Stronger,
  until one autumn day.

And Then!
  by Despair,
All end to Welfare –

A Modern Medea, maternal filicide!

Henceforth, from here
  evermore vilified.


viii

Thus, then, my son,
  and as well, everyone,
is the tale of Señora Llorona.

Neither Heaven nor Hell
  may Llorona in dwell;

but condemned to roam
  the Rio Grande.

La Llorona must search
  for the young lives there Lost;

and forever, evermore,
  Be Damned!

© Marvin Loyd Welborn, 2013

Rio Grande River and Bosque near Albuquerque, New Mexico
Photo from Wikimedia Commons

Tuesday, April 30, 2013

Nova


At my mind’s altar I stand,
Delivering the eulogy for one of my former selves
Heads bowed, midnight-clad willows weep 
Another fist-full of years stands fixed on the dusty shelves.
New eyes bloom as older ones surrender to sleep

In the borrowed grains from a defunct hourglass I had dug his grave
Buried him beside the others
His eyes were my eyes. Had been my mother’s. 
I had put a seed in the palm of his hand,
So the world wouldn’t forget he’d been here

In the face of his fate, he’d felt as impotent as a spider web woven to catch a falling star
He’d gone forward still
He knew the pain of not knowing was his void to fill
Besides, even stars eventually met their end
He wondered if you could feel it coming
Wondered if, at the end, Hemingway had thought about Jordan and that cool drink of water
If there were really any bells
He’d been waiting to hear the bells
Marking the day he’d join his other selves
Until then he’d pay that price
For he knew that even a great sculptor of worlds could one day find himself cradling a shotgun
Knew the drops in his bucket would one day form the swells of an ocean.
He paid that price
Like the others before him
Now, in my ribcage, he was alive again. They all were.

Reunited with their kin, his memories settled into their new abode.

© Axel Cooper, 2013

Water drops on spider web
Photo by US Fish & Wildlife Service
from Wikimedia Commons

Tuesday, April 16, 2013

Sleeping Places


I slept with Hieronymus while he dreamt up hell.
It’s not the same on panel, oh no: wood can’t hold color like that,
or the tongue in my ear that moved so slow, sounded like fangs.
But now I know how to keep quiet, and I still keep quiet.

I used to live in a house of sticks, but don’t worry, because this time
I built it with diorite and planted snapdragons in the yard.
At night I lock the doors and post my love letters in the window.

He only lit his cigarettes with matches--makes it taste better, he said,
and once while he smoked in bed, he dropped the box, and
I still find them sometimes, tangled in the sheets.  They scratch
my thighs and try for fire, but my bed is made of water.

I don’t think he realized that I dream too, and once I dreamt
I awoke at low tide holding a man-o-war like a bag of sand.
And over a sunless day, it slipped through my fingers, slithered away.

© Katherine Freeman, 2013

"Hell," by Hieronymus Bosch, circa 1490-1515
Oil on panel
Venice, Doge's Palace
Image from Wikimedia Commons

Monday, March 18, 2013

Poet's Body


I have a poet's body,
so to see my beauty,
you may have to search deeper within.
I make up my face not with lipstick,
for if my lip sticks you're not hearing
what I've said.
I have a poet’s body,
not perfect,
yes there are flaws.
I’m not structured a certain way,
no concrete,
I'm breaking down walls.
I stay covered,
not exposing my flesh,
would rather arouse you,
with the words that I spit.
I have a poet’s body.
My stomach holds truths,
some find hard to digest.
I expel ideas,
meticulous
with common sense.
I have a poet’s body.
My shoulders carry burdens,
that anchor me to the ground.
I massage out the stress,
by writing this down.
I have a poet’s body.
I inhale my surroundings,
hold for a second my breath,
then exhale metaphors,
resuscitating life just as quickly.
I have a poet’s body.
My heart pumps creativity
that flows through my veins,
allowing others to say,
they may feel the same.
Yes, I have a poet’s body,
so to see my beauty,
you may have to search
deeper within.
I have a poet’s body.
and my mind
is waiting to be examined.

       © Suzanne Saxon, 2013

Possibly only the second known photograph of Emily Dickinson,
seated on the left.
Photo released Sept. 7, 2012 by Amherst College Archives and Special Collections
and the Emily Dickinson Museum


Tuesday, March 12, 2013

Visit

Mother and two cubs lumbered black 
from the shadows under heavy maples
whose branches spread out over the lilacs 
bordering the backyard.

The babies left their mother to scramble up a pine 
gnarled from past winters and dry summers.  
They draped their legs over two branches, 
their long fur cascading like Spanish moss, 
and watched the larger bear paw her way to the back deck.

Behind thin glass, I peered over my reading glasses at the scene,
mesmerized by her proximity and her enormous paws,
their claws manicured into steel knives,
her fur knitted into thorny brier.
How unconcerned she was with the swing 
set into slight motion
or the chimes twirling in the wind.  
She rose clumsily on heavy back legs 
and tilted the bird feeder on its side, 
shoving stolen food past well-worn teeth 
onto a pink tongue.   

She glanced over, no thought for me.  

With a growl, the mother beckoned her babies,
their fur a tapestry in shadow.  
They bounded down the tree, leaves shaking like maracas 
and 
joined her at the tilted bird trough.  
Together they gulped the remaining gravel down,
then side-stepped the slide to head for blackberries,
thornless and plump from last night’s rain.

© Susan Muse, 2013


 Mother black bear, a cub barely visible
Photo by Alan Vernon, Wikimedia Commons



Monday, March 4, 2013

Childhood Memories


It was a bunch of mulch piles,
I think,
our fort. 
But perfect. 
We even built a bathroom,
and kept it freshly stocked with
leaf toilet paper. 

Sometimes,
the newspaper shed was unlocked.
We'd climb the 
mountain stack,
and slide to the bottom.
The ink,
long dry,
wouldn't stain our knees,
just drench the stale air with its smell. 

Once,
in the woods,
we just sat down and started digging.
We weren't pirates that day,
but still found a treasure horde:
old mason jars, chipped porcelain, leather shoes, a calcified stirrup.

We'd perfected how to climb 
their fences
without barbed wire snags. 
And we knew just how 
fast to run
through the field to still have time
to avoid the cow patties. 

At our creek,
we'd swing from the tree branches,
and catch tadpoles in the murky water.
At our river,
we'd slide off the rocks,
mermaids. 

© Miranda Hogan, 2013

At Our River
Photo by Tony Russell

Monday, February 25, 2013

The Balance Is a Mystery


The moment exists, and slips my grasp
today as it does on many------

as present bliss is lost in time 
that will not be detained, even if I resist the flow

some unseen force is moving through me
and I question if the current knows the stream------- 
or if consciousness can recognize living as it seems

is simple awareness reality and living just a dream?
or is the truth of being alive somewhere in between?

human born, we're born to see ----------

the balance is a mystery, 
a cosmic dance-----
Siva gettin' down, gettin' up, gettin' on, gettin' free!

destined for more than a meal and a mate
we must daily choose our fate and feel the power of the stream------

for we are carried, after all.

yet, its up to us to paddle and not to drift
for ultimate enlightenment

     © Gerry Sackett, 2013


Moormans River, Sugar Hollow
Photo by Tony Russell