Photos by Lena Bartula

Mexico - Photo and Poetry
by Lena Bartula

YELLOW FINCHES

It is in the ruins of Pozos
that yo intiendo
what is simple and what is profound.

Walls heavy with years of falling
paint a picture of
gravity
the great destroyer
and rain
the great leveler.

Winds from las montanas
delight in their power
to alter the circumstances
of so many lives.

It is in the ruins of Pozos
that la gente tranquilo
lie down with abuelitas
that come at night
to crochet dreams
and knit memories.

And we, the new people,
watch and listen for secrets
shared only in the ruins -
containers of the mysteries.

It is only in the ruins here
that you and I will uncover
old fears and lost hopes
abandoned by time.
Remembered by green ferns
in the center of the garden,
by a treasure beneath
ancient stones,
by yellow finches
at six in the evening.

And by love,
what do you remember
of love?

Lena Bartula, Pozos, 2004

JACARANDA

She sweeps great piles of purple
into courtyard corners
maybe every day maybe twice a day.
It’s raining Jacaranda petals.

They cover the stones beneath our feet
sprinkle our comida with color
land like confetti in our laps
announce Spring with
a shower of blossoms.
It’s raining Jacaranda petals.

She sweeps great piles of purple.
El hefe wants the courtyard clean,
corners clean cobblestones clean.
You say that you
would rather see them
sprinkled with offerings from this Jacaranda.

Stretching above two-story rooftops,
its arms reach to the balcones of
the casita next door.
It’s raining Jacaranda petals.
Our palms open to the sky
as in a summer storm.

It’s impossible not to fall in love under
a tree so sure of itself.

Lena Bartula,
San Miguel de Allende, 2003

SECULAR JESUS

We stumble upon the only restaurant open
in this Mexican fishing village. The locals
had a long weekend, and although it’s almost
one in the afternoon
there are no other customers.

Our waiter’s name is Jesus, (hay-soos) and he
fancies himself a miracle worker, a magician
minus the loaves and fishes.
No need, fish is on the menu in abundance and
the Italian bakery is a block away.

Jesus places a banana on the table and
With a quick chopping motion,
hands high above the table,
he makes three cuts in the air.
Presenting the fruit to Sara, he says
go ahead, peel it.

Awe and wonder transform her innocent face.
We stare at the banana inside, already sliced
in four neat sections and we all admit
we feel the awe and wonder although
with the ready skepticism that keeps adults
on the other side of the river.

His string trick is good as well. He hands the
scissors to Sara, says ‘cut it for me’ and now
he has two strings. Rolling it around his hand,
he counts the magic numbers.
One, two, three.
When it unrolls, the string is whole again.

How often we cut, saw, twist, pretend.
With a slight of hand we slight our own souls.
We call on the great mystery to suit our needs,
fill our emptiness.
Pray to the Savior of disassembled thoughts,
the goddess of fucked up relationships.
We plead with the lord of unfinished business
please put us back together whole, then
leave the audience in awe and wonder
as if we ourselves worked the miracle.

Lena Bartula, Bucerias, 2006

EL ZOCALO

Radishes oranges cucumbers cantaloupe
slices of incongruous friends
only in Mexico City would they
hang out together and maybe
only here at El Nivel.
oldest cantina on the zocalo.
Cantina of artists and writers
paintings and drawings, letters
and newpaper articles
cover the walls
and even now
all kinds hang out at El Nivel.

Outside the door
El zocalo is alive
barefoot dancers
pound temple stones
burn copal in offering
fling feathers from their
headresses as they spin.

Rice peanuts chips sausage
even now Pancho brings more
“Quieres mas comida?”
“Si, como no.”
“Que hace in Nuevo Mexico?”
I look up from this journal
“Yo soy una escritoria”
at this he laughs out loud
“Your are a desk?”
and instantly we are friends.
For the price of one cerveza
I sit and eat, seemingly forever
Maybe he thinks
I’m writing a food review
a travel piece
“food miraculously reappears”
reads the headline.

Outside the door
rockers and vendors pierce
the air with boom boxes,
hawk black-market c.d.’s,
mocking the present while
so near the past
in earshot of El Templo Mayor.

I remember yesterday
when Enrique ate everything
even the food on my plate
and today I wander in,
just me, la gringa solita.
Pancho’s hair is dyed black
he must be at least 70
says he’s been here forever
at El Nivel.
Likes to practice his English
used to be a general
in the Mexican Air Force
has a friend in Chicago
who knew Al Capone.

Outside the door
near la Catedral Metropolitana
poor women nurse babies
holding them in one hand
stretching the other one
toward passersby
un peso? un peso?

Florescent tubes over my head
sunny yellow paint, smog grey tiles
behind booths of cactus green
directing my gaze between
the decor and this journal
it feels like time for
another cerveza.
Pancho returns proudly bearing
an article to show la gringa,
la escritora, and please
get his name right
Rogelia Fausto.

Lena Bartula, Mexico City, 2002

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Poetry by Lena Bartula

WHERE THE BLACK DOG SLEEPS

Pack your bags, come with me to Pozos
where the black dog sleeps with one eye open
begins and ends his day in no hurry.
Where maguey waits a hundred
years to put forth its towering white globes.
Where to do and to be are the same.

Come with me to Pozos.
We’ll mine the riches of our subterranean souls
in pockets of stone, crystal, tears and blood.
Where ghosts light and unlight the
candles of your thoughts.
And the ancient ones stir your days and nights
together in one pot.

Memory is being birthed here with every
buenos dias and mucho gusto.
Here in Pozos, where solitude gives birth
to imagination. Where sustenance is white stone
and crumbling walls.
Billowing clouds shine pastel
lured closer by longing nopales.
Distant hills encircle us, rock us
in a cradle of history,
blessing the valley of our consciousness.

Walk with me on cobblestones
hear the spirits sing their stories.
Climb with me the hills of our hearts.
Mine with me the ore of
our unexplored path.
Pack your bags, come with me to Pozos.

March 2004

CHRISTMAS IN MEXICO

It’s Feliz Navidad all around us and
I’m in love with Christmas again
days and nights crammed with fiestas
Las Posadas
pinatas with dulces
cacahuates,
galletas animales
and mountains of oranges

Across the street in Carmen’s kitchen
we huddle with thirty or more family members
sing along to Mexican holiday tunes
even a Mexican version of the Chipmunks.
The Velasquez sisters cook tacos y tostadas
the children stuff bags and tie them with yarn
all of us laughing, tying, singing, tasting.

On this night we are shown a room of
family portraits and told the story of the parents
killed when their car crashed twenty years ago.
The responsibility for raising the younger children
falling to Carmen.
These are the adults I see here now
la familia Velasquez who adore Carmen
know and love her as sister, mother and father.
On this night I am reminded of the joy and chaos
of Christmas seasons with my own siblings
so many years ago, and of later holidays
with my own children, who always sang along
with the Chipmunks.

The men are arriving now
to fasten pine boughs with tinsel and ornaments
string them above the streets, between our casas.
When the work is finished
the rosario is prayed by candlelight
in the middle of our darkened calle.
Gringos, we are excused for not knowing
the prayers in Spanish.
With the crowd we stroll to other casas
grateful for the warmth of the candles we hold
in the nearly freezing ten o’clock air
the las Posadas song travels back and forth
between visitors and residents
roughly translated to “Is there room at the inn?”
and “No, go away.”

Returning to Carmen’s we find room at the posada,
smells of the day’s cooking wafts out
as the doors open to welcome the crowd.
Everyone gathers below colorful pinatas
Shaped like two unidentified cartoon characters
and two large stars - estrellas -
now hoisted high on a rope between our rooftops.

And after the last dulces and oranges have fallen
children sit quietly on the curb to await their treats
cups of ponche
the bags we’d stuffed
plates of tacos y tostadas.

Tomorrow night, Christmas Eve - Noche Buena -
we will go to Reyna’s house
eat more tamales,
drink more ponche,
hear another rosario
and whatever else is the tradition
for la familia Ledesma.

It’s Feliz Navidad all around us and
I’m in love with Christmas again.

Lena Bartula, Pozos, 2005

LA MADRUGADA

En la madrugada
gossamer between worlds
shimmers barely there.
Dragonfly wings
lift me from my bed
take me on a voyage
I can’t remember later.
En la madrugada
fuschia bouganvillas sleep
in wet, silent gardens
Roses turn their heads
to the bluing sky
raining velvet petals
of pink yellow red white
En la madrugada
I can almost touch the morning
but stillness stops my hand
Feet traverse wooden planks
veiled figures from another realm
speak in whispered chorus
bleed love into my heart
En la madrugada
how can I know the day
when I live inside the night?
In gossamer between worlds
I smell you and turn away
snuggle with a ghost
of my other self.

Lena Bartula, Mexico City, 2002