Cibola 115
Simon Zopeloxochitl
My lord, the black nahualli is dead.
I went with the brownrobes as
you ordered, saw to it
that the lay brother called Honoratio
got left behind in Petatlán
with a sudden sickness.
Lacking a second white man, then–
an official witness–what Spaniard
would take the word of one
credulous friar, however many
natives he quotes? A foreigner even
among foreigners: he speaks their castellano
worse than I do. And whatever he meant
by “city of gold”–a world-denier
like him–no one thought to wonder.
Coronado’s soldiers hated him
from start to finish.
The nahualli Esteban is dead:
& with him the gravest threat
to the gods of our long-lost cousins
at Chicomoztoc,
at the Seven Caves.
I escaped their arrows;
they let me live among them
until the governor’s visit.
I taught them the art
of surrender, how to avoid
the yellowbeard’s venom.
To lend him what he asks for
without giving up the title.
At my insistence they kept
their sacred images out of sight, just
as if they were women, or reckless
boys. I recounted the pathetic
tale of Montezuma.
They would’ve killed me
for a witch as well
but I repeated Esteban’s admonitions
in language they’d accept:
You can’t stop a torrent–
but you can stand back, let
your check-dams capture the silt,
the rich litter.
(To be continued.)
__________
Simon Zopeloxochitl is an invented character. He first made his appearance as a participant in the song contest (see Cibola 86).
The idea of an Aztec sorcerer travelling with Esteban and Marcos as an undercover anthropologist/ambassador to “Cibola” is not as far-fetched as it may seem. The Aztec origin myth of Seven Caves and a Place of Herons somewhere in the far north was given new life by the reports of Seven Cities brought back by Cabeza de Vaca, Esteban and their companions, and was partly responsible for fueling the enthusiasm for an expedition of conquest. (The myth lives on to this day, reflected in the name of the state of New Mexico and in local NM toponymns such as Montezuma and Aztec.) In a few years, a native Aztec revivalist movement would spark rebellions and possibly even a Ghost Dance-type attempt at a new religion, according to one scholar (John Bierhorst). The unspecified “lord” addressed here is presumably a disgruntled nobleman or native priest plotting a revolt.
nahualli – In Nahuat belief, a shaman/sorcerer able to transform him/herself into an animal for travel in the underworld; broadly, any skilled magic-worker.
the governor’s visit – Coronado’s expedition of 1540.
Words on the highway
On the outskirts of Frostburg, MD (a college town)
Cibola 114
Reader (20)
Gold is shining in your sapodilla house of trogons.
Your home abounds in jade water whorls, O prince,
O Jesucristo.
You’re singing in Anahuac. . . .
You’re hidden away at Seven Caves
where the mesquite grows.
The eagle cries, the jaguar whines; you,
in the midst of the field–a roseate quechol–
fly onward, in the Place Unknown.
ANON. CHRISTIAN AZTEC, 16th century
(adapted from the John Bierhorst translation of Cantares Mexicanos 33:3-8)
You people desired to capture Elder Brother so that you might destroy him. You secured the assistance of Vulture, who made a miniature earth; you saw him at home engaged in this work. He shaped the mountains, defined the water courses, placed the trees, and in four days completed his task. Mounting the zigzag ladders of his house he flew forth and circled until he saw Elder Brother. Vulture saw blue flames issuing from Elder Brother’s heart and knew that he was invulnerable. In his turn Elder Brother knew that Vulture wished to kill him and had made the miniature earth for that purpose.
JOSí‰ LEWIS AND FRANK RUSSELL
“Elder Brother as He Restored Himself to Life” (version of a traditional Akimel O’odham speech/sermon)
Full of pith
I am reading “Nineteen poems” by W. S. Merwin in the May/June 2004 issue of American Poetry Review, and arguing with nearly every one.
Maybe I shouldn’t confess that I read some periodicals a year after their date of publication. You might get the idea that I am more up-to-date than I am.
*
This morning I inaugurate a new pocket notebook by jotting down some would-be pithy observations, mainly because I’m too tired for sustained thinking. Sleeplessness started with a chill in my feet around 3:30 that became an ache in my left shoulder blade at 4:00 and then, when I tried to get out of bed at 4:45, turned into a stabbing pain in my right calf. Now I am fully awake and feel only the usual compulsion to line words up and drill some sense into them.
*
Every mirror I’ve ever looked into, I’ve seen the same goddamn thing. You’d think just once there’d be something different in there.
*
If the universe were as unchanging and eternal as each of us in moments of weakness have probably longed for it to be, wouldn’t we be blinded by the light from all those billions of stars? If there were no death, wouldn’t the heat from all that living turn us to ash?
*
“Beyond belief” always sounds like an interesting place to visit. I picture some island nation on the equator: warm and pleasant year-round, with no seasons to speak of; hospitable natives; most of the economy derived in one way or another from the simple fact of being so remote from any other inhabited spot. Once every few generations, a cyclone comes along and flattens everything.
*
I confess that I have never completely reconciled myself to cause and effect. I’m kind of superstitious that way. If I’m not careful, I find myself picturing each action as if it occurred in a literal void, that abhorrent vacuum. For all the years I’ve gardened, I still plant seeds expecting nothing to come of it. When it does, I think, “But maybe this would’ve happened anyway.”
*
I am equally bored with the light and with the darkness. “There’s nothing to see here, folks. Move along!”
*
A thought experiment: Convene a meeting of the most creative scientists from every field and ask them to assume complete lack of uniformity. Describe the universe using qualities only. Collaborate on all conclusions. Everyone gets a veto.
I imagine this would be exactly like a conclave of poets, except for the “collaborate” part. And probably the writing would be more precise, more carefully thought-through.
*
An atheist, I suppose, is someone who can’t get over being appalled by the fact that the object(s) of desire are empty, bear no relationship to anything in the so-called real world.
*
Augustine was wrong: a beginning of time is no beginning. To begin always means to stop, right in the middle of things, and reset the counter.
*
In the beginning was the verb. And the verb was with child. And the umbilical cord was a worldwide web, full of mater and matter not yet differentiated into useful information versus solid waste.
*
The headline says: “Homing In On A Receptor For The Fifth Taste.” But does the tongue receive, or produce?
Out of all the vast numbers of organic compounds, we are only equipped to detect five, basic kinds. Luckily, Ev*lution has given us a direct pipeline between nose and mouth. And the nose is completely profligate and believes in everything.
Ah, tongue! Little comforter for a damp bed where only lies ever manage to sleep.
Words on the street
Cibola 113
Marcos de la Sierra (a.k.a. El Donado) (conclusion)
But I don’t have a quarrel with the Lord
of the Close-at-Hand,
only with you who brandish
the law of Love.
You who flaunt
your stylized poverty,
patched robe & cowl
I’m forbidden to wear.
Telling yourselves that more virtue accrues
the more wealth & privilege you’ve had
to give up.
Or if sincerely humble–like this
haunted Frenchman, Marcos–unsuited
for battle. At the mercy of storms
& currents he can’t
even name.
This is an Order where bullies flourish,
men poisoned by envy of our own Founder.
They say the fighting started
while he still walked the earth,
too saintly to understand
the ways of vipers.
They say he preached to birds,
to unschooled fish.
Who then went
throughout the world to spread
the gospel. So
we who have gotten
all our news of Heaven
from birds
for ages–
what do we need these friars for?
Ah, but–says the Saint
in my dreams–
they need you.
__________
Lord of the Close-at-Hand: Aztec designation for one of their chief deities, applied also to God by the first Christian converts.
What happens
Coyote says: We shit, as we dream – alone.
*
Turkey says: We shit in an old chaos of the sun.
*
Deer says: Not love thy shit, nor hate; but what thou shit’st, shit well.
*
Gray fox says: Only connect! Shit in fragments no longer.
*
Horse says: No other penalty than to shit in desire without hope, a fate appropriate to noble souls with a clear vision of shit.
*
Bear says: I went to the woods to shit deliberately.
___________
With apologies to Conrad, Stevens, Milton, E. M. Forster, Santayana and Thoreau.
Self help
Dear Emily, I was glad to hear about your new incarnation as an advice columnist. I’m confused.
If I turned over a new leaf, would I stay just as green?
If I look on the bright side, won’t I need shades?
If I just do it, can I get out of having to think?
If I’m to be neither a borrower nor a lender, shouldn’t I in good conscience cease to breathe?
If I gave a hundred and ten percent, could I get it all back in deductions?
If I follow someone else’s advice to reinvent myself, who owns the intellectual property rights?
If I’m learning to express my sexuality, and I accidentally get in touch with my inner child, does that make me a pedophile?
If I prioritize personal growth, can I write off my blighted urban core?
If I seize the day, can I still get a good night’s sleep?
If I cast my bread upon the waters, am I free to piss in the wind?
If I could truly “be here, now,” would I forget how to curse?
If I let the scales fall from my eyes, how would I see my way in a world of snakes?
Most of all, I wonder: If I help myself, can I still expect a second helping?
Any light you could shed on these matters would be much appreciated. Sign me…
Differently Clued in Pennsylvania
__________
Thanks to Abdul-Walid for forwarding the link.
Words on the street
