April 1, 2025
Somehow these two pieces came strongly to mind today.
‘HORTENICA’ Hortencia changes In flashes and guises. Her eyes and teeth gleam Like Indians’ arrows. With laughter vibrato Like a charming child’s, Hortencia leans over Social tables to stirs talk. Her clothes for the Street Display many pockets, Her boots like a Governor’s Or—better yet—a Buccaneer’s. Above the Hotel Room’s phone, Though, Hortencia’s brow creases With compassion As a patient describes His problems to the Psicóloga. About her apartment Hortencia pads barefoot, Her skin of cocoa-butter brown, Back and forth before her Five feet shelving the Works of Sigmund Freud In Portuguese, Stout and again like an Indian in the Forest.
’TOWARD END OF CANDOMBLE’ Toward end of Candomblé In Salvador, Bahia, The drummer is stopped, The women ridden/blessed Risen from prostration At the living-room altar. Madré Maria dos Nevés-- Who’s told Vilma in Portuguese That you’re “very pretty”-- Her strong and graven head Like a lantern from Angola-- Has you stand, touch the floor With your right hand, and straighten. The Madré closes your eyes, Dusts your face, Smoothes your arms down, Grips you by one shoulder— Then JOLTS that shoulder-- And JOLTS the other-- Shoving to spin--Shoving to spin-- This way and that-- Her hands like a force of life Prehistorical, Denying one’s control Of Gods and fates. Another lesson From a woman.
Rio de Janeiro, June 1985, with HORTENCIA. Salvador, Bahia, November 1993, with VILMA and MARIA DOS NE
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