Owl
Owl kidnapped the caretaker and showed the tourists round the tomb.
"Mono is monkey," he pointed out.
"You can fool around with him; but don't do no business."
Eyes like Tlaloc, the tourists goggled.
Murciélago woke up, but he couldn't get down from the wall.
"He's been like that for years," Owl said. "Completely batty."
Muerte drew back his lips in a grin.
Butterflies dripped down.
"Like moths from a miser's wallet," said Owl.
The youngest tourist smiled: "Can I call you Wol?"
"Why?" said Owl.
"Because he's seen the film but can't pronounce your name."
Mother flashed her four figure dental bill.
"But it's an easy name to say"
said Owl, "Try it!
Buho Nétigua Lechuza Tecolote."
Tlaloc is the Central Mexican rain god. He is often depicted with large goggles for eyes.
Buho Nétigua Lechuza Tecolote: All words for an owl.
All You Ever Wanted To Know About Monos
If a tree could dance in the square and flap two enormous limbs
in time to the drums, it would have such a tiny face,
peeping from the waistband of skirt or trousers.
Eyes fixed on each other's eyes, the trees dance on and on.
Everywhere, hanging in the air, liquid motes of fiery music,
laburnum chains dangling, sublunar, for a second.
Men and women stand stamping their feet.
Some dance on stilts, clumsy in their joining;
yet they do not reach the top of these tilting trees.
Within their colossal frameworks of cloth,
the children are restless in their wicker cages.
They sway enormous foliage, lips pursed in concentration.
When the music stops,
live dryads, bark-skinned, brown-eyed, no longer myths,
invite us to replace them in the world of their tree.
Monos, as well as being monkeys, are also the huge papier mâché figures that people create to dance in the square on feasts and holidays
Day of the Dead
People wander the village in fancy dress.
Diablo is clad in red and yellow flames.
"Beware," he tells the villagers, "the camera's evil eye.
Take care lest your face be trapped on film,
or your soul lost forever in a gringo photograph."
Overweight and out of breath, Nikon and Minolta climb the temple steps.
They can't tell the time from the sundial's worn out figures.
The hands of their body clocks are thrown up in anguish.
"Give us some water; from thirst we are suffering!"
"Gringos: bad news; our wells have run dry;
but we'll give you mescal if you don't take our souls."
Zapotec children dance victory songs.
Who unearthed their conga from time's winding maze?
Minolta and Nikon have remade their lives.
They lie down for siesta in the pyramid's shade.
An old man shuffles around their shapes,
his pants are held up by a camera strap.
Diablo: the devil; an ever-present celebrant on the Day of the Dead.
Gringo: a pejorative term for an outsider, usually from the USA.
Music
Shadows dance along the ground and claw at the sky.
Above them, discarded stars, hardened and cold.
Bright-eyed maidens avoiding the young men's kisses;
foolish, the young man tripped by the maiden's shawl.
And the old men, savouring each moment,
their mouths filling with mescal, their nostrils with tobacco.
An old man's mind, replete with what has been,
knowing what has yet to be, but not knowing the when of it.
"Listen to the deep throated voice of stone!"
"Listen to the earth's grey bones responding!"
"On stone, may we dance forever!"
"And in the sky!"
This refers to a specific Oaxacan dance in which the young girl twirls her rebozo (shawl) into a rope and flings it over the young man's head and behind his knees, tripping him up.
Mescal: a home-brewed, alcoholic drink, said to be mildly hallucinogenic and to have curative powers; it is made from the maguey cactus and consumed throughout Oaxaca.
Mescal
1
A lumber yard, timber strewn everywhere.
Before us, the great pit,
as big as a communal grave.
Fire-blackened stones layer the sides.
Here the heart of maguey will be sacrificed.
First, the fire;
then the maguey laid across the red-hot stones.
When the pit is sealed, we will bear witness.
Maguey: the cactus from which mescal is made.
.
2
stiff on the stuff
on the mescal I mean
the old man vomiting
the crowd sticks to him like flies
people in the street parting like a bow wave
the ship shock of his passing
bottled sunshine the maguey
its madness desiccating his brain
pickling his wits burning his nostrils
his throat ablaze with desire for lime's bite
chili's numbing flame mescal's healing kiss
nailed to the cross of the sidewalk
his arms hung out on the wind to dry
a scarecrow's clothing cleaner than his clothes
wisps of straw leaking out from his frame
There are many ways of drinking mescal. One way is to suck on a slice of lime, then to lick a dry mixture of spices including salt and chili, and finally to sip the mescal through numbed lips
3
"Does he think of the thin-flanked mule,
ears aloft, plodding round and round,
urged on by the driver's whip?"
The millstones grind the roast maguey,
shredding its fibres.
Soon they will drown in the waiting vats.
"Does he dream of the polished wood,
of the sunshine angling down,
highlighting the precious liquid
diamond drops alive with sunshine?"
4
people in the street
they want to stand him up and strip him down
the lungs that breathe
the sensitive noses
he is stretched on an ancient altar
his torso's closed flesh waiting for the blade
his body bending to the slash of their obsidian gaze
the policeman's nightstick
white lightning over layers of blackness
the mist lying thick on his mind
5
Now the liquid lies hidden in an alchemist's flask.
The fires have been lit again.
We await the miracle of the mescal's resurrection.
"A thin, pale snake of light,
liquid descending the coils of the serpent's neck."
Cool waters bless it.
It flourishes, drop by drop:
a mouth-burning treasure.
Don Pedro passes us each a thimbleful.
We drink: tears flow from our eyes.
Don Pedro shows white teeth in amusement.
6
children greet him with a villancico
bright bells their lives
swung to greet morning's freshness
the joyous babe of this newborn day
the old man vomits again
entrenching us in his paper bag reality
we become strange animals
we bare our teeth
he brushes our ferocity away with an anguished cry
mejor muerto / better dead
the street people say
parting on all sides the townsfolk
hair beneath the comb
closing in to gag on the stench of his passage
Villancico: Christmas carol and children's song.
7
Now the bottles are lined up neatly in squads of four.
Twelve to a box, four boxes to a case,
a hundred cases to a camión.
Yalalag, Ocotlan, Tlacolula, Guelatao, Zimatlan, Cuilapan,
in camión and guajalotero, the mescal rolls along.
Small towns in the State of Oaxaca.
Guajalotero: a country bus (often an old half-ton truck or a station wagon), laden down with people, live animals, and village treasures. We have a hand-painted ceramic guajalotero which carries a dog, a pig, a monkey, a parrot in a cage, in addition to its overload of people and goods.
8
they hiss from dark doorways
chiaro of unsheathed teeth the lips pulled back
oscuro of night words
sharp in his ears like broken bottles
"You're drunk! You donkey!"
blanketed with flies his face wet with vomit
he kicks at the bars of the space within which he walks
people surround him creating a moving jail
he shivers with laughter and spreads out his arms
round wide eyes staring
an owl about to fly in the cockcrow sunface
we draw too close and something snaps
he laughs at our stabbing fingers
pissing in a doorway through the iron of his cage
Conversation Piece
"The rich man in Yanhuitlan
bought a husband and wife
from a nearby village.
They cost nine pesos de oro.
Next day, he cut their throats
at the foot of a large stone idol;
then he sprinkled the dead man's grave
with their blood."
"Now may the rains return;
may the crops grow again;
may the sun continue his daily journey.
In blood we were born, my friend;
in blood we will finish our days."
The sun's rising kiln fires the clouds with light.
Shadows shorten, grow fatter and stronger.
The night ants (red) return to their nests;
the day ants (black) set out on their journey of plunder.
Chiaroscuro: the technique of contrasting light with darkness often found in Renaissance art.
Borracho / burracho: a play on words. Borracho: drunk; burro: a donkey; burracho: drunk as a donkey.
Pesos de oro: gold coins, measured by weight. The peso is now the official Mexican currency.
Wind of Change
The wind blew cold through the window.
Black and blue bruises of cloud,
technicolour in the evening sky.
The sun blood drenching clouds and rooftops.
"Softly! Softly!" she spoke out loud,
"for at such times, earth's fires are low,
and if the wind blows wrong,
then who is to replace them?"
She shuddered.
"For goats and sheep have eaten the grass
that binds the earth that holds the trees;
and now there is no kindling.
The magic sticks have gone from this world
and the foreign priests permit no sacrifice."
She paused, then cried:
"Put out the light!"
We sit together in the gathering darkness,
listening to the footsteps of the wind
as it snorts and roots at doors and windows.
The Scorpion
Yesterday, in the rain, Alacrán, the Scorpion, knocked at our door.
We told him to go away.
Tail in the air, he minced down the garden path and out of sight.
Today, his carcase dries on the stone in the sun.
Black ants pick at his body.
They carry him in bite size chunks back to their nest,
up the thin crack in the patio wall, and past our door.
"Heal yourself!" cries the sánate bird,
drawing his knife blade over the sunwarmed stone.
The trees fill up with sparks of colour.
A butterfly, yellow and black, shakes delicate wings,
and dangles, at the end of his string, above a flower.
Soon the Bird of Paradise will open its eyes.
Above us, Monte Albán redreams its former glory.
We move from meal to meal. Cloud shadows walk across the wall.
Tourists on an endless train from there to here
to nowhere in particular,
white clouds staring with wide open eyes from a pastel sky.
The sánate: a great boat-tailed grackle; its name, translated literally from the Spanish, means "Heal yourself"!
Sparrows
And it's the sparrows I remember,
squabbling on the red-tiled roof of my neighbour's house.
That's the sánate winding up the day with his long thin whistle.
And now, on azoteas and in streets, the dogs are barking.
Suddenly, a warm wind walks through the open door,
ruffles my hair, and climbs out through the kitchen window
with a last wave of the palm leaves.
And this is my life: to sit here before an open book
with black ants crawling across the page, carnations in a vase,
and tropical fruit in a basket on the table.
The great wheel of the sun rises over the rooftops.
Sparrows hop, dogs bark, and the sánate
drags the long knife of his cry across the tinker's grindstone.
Azoteas: the tiled flat roofs of houses, often used as roof gardens. Oaxacans often keep their dogs on the azotea, and it is not unusual to hear barking, look up, and find a dog growling down at you.
The Witchdoctor / El Brujo
El Brujo gives me three polished stones:
one black, one blue, one speckled.
He blesses me by touching my eyes with feathers.
He cures with the brightness of forgotten gods:
long-buried in splendour, still burning with life.
The silver sun he hangs on my chest
mirrors the gold disc hanging from the sky.
silver mingling with gold,
warm metals bonding in my heart.
"This is a magic land,"
El Brujo says, as he sketches his spell.
He lays hands on my sorrow,
drawing it from my head and blowing it away.
Copal hangs heavy on the air.
The room is warm ; suddenly I am sweating.
When my body is empty, drained of all bitterness,
he fills my mouth with honey and hibiscus.
He walks me to the bakery and we buy warm loaves of bread.
Wrapped in brown paper, they snuggle beneath my shirt.
I hurry them home in their nest by my heart.
A waxen star falls onto the stove;
coffee is again the smell of my childhood.
Honey and hibiscus, jamaica y miel:
a sweetness of memory against teeth and tongue.
Copal: a heavily scented wood, still used as a substitute for incense at Zapotec religious ceremonies.
Jamaica: a sweet, pinkish drink, made from hibiscus flowers and served with fresh fruit at breakfast; miel means honey.
Bird of Paradise
Jaguar crept between my ribs and took my heart into his mouth.
When he closed his jaws, my heart was as heavy as stone;
Jaguar broke his tooth upon it.
He cursed me and my heart remained a rock within my chest.
At night, when I sleep, I dream of dust and ashes.
"Seek," the witch doctor told me, "some young girl;
one who will wrap your heart in laughter.
One day she will feed you milk and honey:
then your heart will grow roots and begin to flower.
When the Bird of Paradise calls your name,
your heart will grow wings and fly to the sky.
A sunbeam on its plumage will fill you with glory.
Your tears will disperse and turn into feathers;
sun people will chase you through the clouds
and crown your heart with a rainbow crown."
Bird of Paradise: not a bird at all, but a beautiful tropical flower, shaped liked a bird's head.
The Dancers and the Dance
1
she comes here to dance for me
only for me does she dress this way
she shows me her dreams
unfolding them one by one
silk and cotton garments
drawn fresh from her scented closet
thin copper bracelets
carved wooden mask
only her eyes reveal
subversive flesh and blood
2
she orchestrates her story
skin drum
rattle of seeds in a sun-dried pod
single violin string
stretched across an armadillo's shell
I too am tense like an instrument
waiting to be played
the bones of my love
reach out towards her
3
when she makes her music
familiar spirits return to the earth
dancing in a sash of moonlight
she recreates an ancient spell
gold letters plucked from dark scrolls
no wands no words
just water's purity
flicked fresh
across lips and face
she binds me with the string of notes
she undoes with her hair
our bodies form an open altar
we worship with mysterious offerings
drawn from wells set deep within us
4
rain falls from the sky
Moon turns his face away
suddenly in darkened alleys
clouds hold hands and dance
dense streamers of light
dangle from street lamps
shadows remember their forgotten steps
gently she draws me to her
I try to follow
frail whirlpools of withered leaves
fragment weak sunshine
in light's watery pool
5
her magic grows
I take my first step
unmapped journey
desert spaces
we move to new rhythms
across moon flecked clouds
raindrops fall more slowly
faltering drum beat
diminishing water
6
high above us
the ghost of a melody
shaking its head
wringing its hands
we return at last
to light and air
the moon's vacant face
scowls in an empty field
someone has plucked the stars
one by one
like a chain of daisies
now there are no sky flowers
to adorn the night
7
someone has taken a knife
and peeled an enormous radish
this cartoon moon face
this full skull hanging from nothing
this lantern above us
now my lover sculpts time
and space
into small chunks
each sacrifice
a jewel between her fingers
I pin to my chest
three small notes
and a skeleton of words
Noche de rábanos: Night of Radishes; every year, on December 23, the Oaxacans carve radishes into wonderful shapes and display them in the the central square (one of the most beautiful and unspoiled in Mexico)
8
inside my dancing head
the fires have gone out
without her hands to guide me
my feet have turned clumsy
scars layer my wrists and ankles
star crossed bindings
cutting against the grain
I gather a harvest of stars
she holds them in her eyes
her fingers are grasshoppers
making love in my hair
when she kisses my fingernails
one by one
we both know our bodies will never be the same
9
together we weave a slender cage
she cuts out my heart with her tongue
placing it on an altar inside the bars
she locks the tiny door
a silvery key wrought from moonstone
my fluttering heart grows miniature wings
next time the door is opened
they will fly me to her lips
my heart is a caged bird on a tiny perch
it chirrups a love song
its image in the mirror answers back
breathless it scrapes its wings on the moon
its body striving upwards to the stars
10
at Monte Albán the danzantes
sway to soft music
they dance on stone
as they have danced for centuries
wind rustles the grass
moon casts sharp shadows
darkness ascends the temple steps
huge fingers grasping upwards
an owl's feathers clutching at the skies
at dawn tomorrow
the sun will rise beneath our feet
we will squint down on its majesty
we will pluck the ripeness of its orange
in our outstretched hands
Danzantes: dancers; these mysterious figures, in various poses, called the danzantes, are carved on stone; some vertical, some horizontal, they have been built at various times into many of the surviving temples at Monte Albán.
11
our last night together
I pluck a blossom from the tulipán
a final offering of my love
she gives it back
I place it in the pocket of flesh
where I used to keep my heart
tomorrow when the flower breaks
it will stain my shirt
a damp splash of blood
no longer running in my veins
the scent of our happiness
will cling forever to my fingers
Tulipán: the tulip tree; a tropical tree with bright red flowers, like tulips.