Cibola 111

This entry is part 110 of 119 in the series Cibola

Reader (19)

A fire devoureth before them; and behind them a flame burneth: the land is as the garden of Eden before them, and behind them a desolate wilderness . . .
JOEL 2:3

The unofficial chronicler of Coronado’s expedition, Pedro de Castañeda . . . [when referring to de Niza’s expedition] speaks constantly of three priests, as though the friar had companions. . . . [T]his seems to be highly inaccurate because neither Marcos nor anyone else mentions any other priests after Brother Onorato [actually an oblate] was left behind early in the journey . . .
MADELEINE TURRELL RODACK
Adolf F. Bandelier’s The Discovery of New Mexico by the Franciscan Monk, Friar Marcos de Niza in 1539

To lose always and let everyone win is a trait of valiant souls, generous spirits, and unselfish hearts; it is their manner to give rather than receive even to the extent of giving themselves. They consider it a heavy burden to possess themselves and it pleases them more to be possessed by others and withdrawn from themselves, since we belong more to that infinite Good than we do to ourselves.
SAN JUAN DE LA CRUZ
“Maxims on Love”

Federico Garcí­a Lorca: two translations

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GHAZAL OF UNFORSEEN LOVE

No one understood the fragrance
of the dark magnolia of your womb.
No one knew how you tormented
a hummingbird of love between your teeth.

A thousand Persian ponies bedded down
in the moonlit plaza of your forehead
while for four nights I lassoed
your waist, the enemy of snow.

Between gypsum and jasmine, your glance
was a pale branchful of seeds.
I searched my breast to give you
the ivory letters that spell always,

always, always: garden of my agony,
your body forever fugitive,
the blood of your veins in my mouth
and your mouth already my tomb, emptied of light.

*

GACELA DEL AMOR IMPREVISTO

Nadie comprendí­a el perfume
de la oscura magnolia de tu vientre.
Nadie sabí­a que martirizabas
un colibrí­ de amor entre los dientes.

Mil caballitos persas se dormí­an
en la plaza con luna de tu frente,
mientras que yo enlazaba cuatro noches
tu cintura, enemiga de la nieve.

Entre yeso y jazmines, tu mirada
era un pálido ramo de simientes.
Yo busqué, para darte, por mi pecho
las letras de marfil que dicen
siempre,

siempre, siempre: jardí­n de mi agoní­a,
tu cuerpo fugitivo para siempre,
la sangre de tus venas en mi boca,
tu boca ya sin luz para mi muerte.

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GHAZAL OF THE TERRIBLE PRESENCE

Let the water do without a place to settle;
let the wind do without valleys.

Let the night do without eyes
and my heart without its flower of gold.

I want the steers to talk with the large leaves
and the earthworm to die of shadow.

I want the teeth gleaming in the skull
and the silks drowning in yellow.

I can see the duel between the wounded night
and noon, how they twist and tangle.

I resist a twilight of green venom
and collapsed arches where time suffers on.

But don’t illuminate this limpid nude of yours
like some black cactus open in the bulrushes.

Leave me in an agony of longing for dark planets,
but do not teach me the ways of your cool waist.

*

GACELA DE LA TERRIBLE PRESENCIA

Yo quiero que el agua se quede sin cauce,
yo quiero que el viento se quede sin valles.

Quiero que la noche se quede sin ojos
y mi corazón sin flor del oro;

que los bueyes hablen con las grandes hojas
y que la lombriz se muera de sombra;

que brillen los dientes de la calavera
y los amarillos inunden la seda.

Puedo ver el duelo de la noche herida
luchando enroscada con el mediodí­a.

Resiste un ocaso de verde veneno
y los arcos rotos donde sufre el tiempo.

Pero no ilumines tu limpio desnudo
como un negro cactus abierto en los juncos.

Déjame en un ansia de oscuros planetas,
pero no me enseñes tu cintura fresca.

Cibola 110

This entry is part 109 of 119 in the series Cibola

Owl-Meeter Shaman (conclusion)

Ah, my brothers & sisters,
my nieces & nephews whose scalps hang
in the eastern rainhouse,
go where they send you:
to the springs, to the great oceans. Swim
& burrow through the mud. Be happy
if you can.

I watched that red-faced chief encircle us.
Those he sprinkled water on–already
their shadows grow thin.
They drape the crossed sticks
with all the flowers they can find
but still their skins loosen.

In the smoke from my cigarette
I can see a bitter wind
building in the south,
scattering our ragtag remnants
across the desert.
In the crystal’s frozen kernel, a flood
that sweeps away towns
& buries villages. This time
it wasn’t the shaman who worked witchcraft.

Ah, my lost children,
be clouds, be rain–if you come back
wearing any other kind of feathers
I won’t be there to meet you.
Be siblings to the rainbow, to lightning,
to thunder that makes
the hollow mountains shake,
rattling their seeds.

The packrats have plenty of shamans.
Come visit us in the west
when the saguaro’s ripe.
__________

the eastern rainhouse: I.e., Shiwanna.

that red-faced chief: I.e., Marcos de Niza.

if you come back wearing any other kind of feathers: I.e., as owls – a form frequently adopted by the spirits.

The packrats have plenty of shamans: Burrowing owls are sometimes referred to in O’odham lore as shamans for the packrats they live among (and predate upon).

Cibola 109

This entry is part 108 of 119 in the series Cibola

Owl-Meeter Shaman

Again at dusk Blue Mockingbird alights
on the topmost twig of the mesquite tree
that stands on the western edge
of Rain Plaza. He preens
& pirouettes, hangs upside-down
as he holds forth once more
on his favorite theme:
Nights are for singing, days are for gathering songs.
How many medicine men do the packrats need?

Ah, my fallen nieces, my fallen nephews!
Since when can’t a shaman cure
his own ailment?
We tried to keep him
from making off with the better part
of the pueblo’s youth–at least until
I could assemble all my helpers,
send fog & nightmares down
on the warriors of Shiwanna.

He said If Owl,
if Rattlesnake,
if Gila Monster send sickness,
cut off their heads!
Surely a doctor
who spreads disease is no doctor.

The same way old Nawitsu talks: inside-out.
Up on Sun Plaza the priests smile
their tattooed smiles
& dribble coded messages
in colored sand; Nawitsu below
makes handprints, spits tobacco.
Straight-faced master of interpretation,
polished mask,
his medicine is proof against
excessive smoothness,
the dry scales of a snake
that nothing ever sticks to,
joy or pain.
            That’s what
I should’ve told the Black Shaman,
instead of impersonating
a respected elder with a set-
piece for the occasion:
smooth.

(To be continued.)
__________

Owl-Meeter Shaman: This fictional character was introduced in the song contest. In conformity with the conclusions of archaeologists, I picture Hohokam society as two-tiered. I further imagine a priesthood allied with the nobility, and medicine men and women of various kinds, similar to those who still exist among the O’odham, ministering to the needs of the common people. (There are many other examples in the Americas of native societies that persisted as hunting-gathering-gardening bands like the O’odham after the loss of priesthood, nobility and urban infrastructure to conquest and/or pandemics.)

Blue Mockingbird: A central figure in traditional O’odham oratory for the cactus wine drinking festival which doubles as a rain-bringing ritual.

If Owl, if Rattlesnake, if Gila Monster send sickness: The O’odham theory of disease attributes many illnesses to the involuntary giving of offense to a variety of animal spirits. Such illnesses can only be cured by all-night shaman-led rituals featuring, in homeopathic fashion, the chanting of songs given in dreams by the very beings responsible for the illnesses. Each shaman has ownership of the songs of one or more spirit being which he or she has personally received in a dream or vision-quest. Thus, an owl-meeter shaman is a master of owl songs. (See note to Cibola 83 for more on the owl-meeter shaman’s role.)

Nawitsu: The only mask traditionally worn by the O’odham. Nawitsu is referred to as a clown by anthropologists, though among Native peoples of the American southwest, clowns are far more sacred and powerful than the silly creatures usually meant by the English word. Here, I am imagining that Nawitsu’s role among the Hohokam was as a satirist and advocate for the common people, similar to the role of the Newekwe clowns among the Zuni.

Cibola 108

This entry is part 107 of 119 in the series Cibola

Reader (18)

I took a rib from my body and made of it a fire stick.
I took it in my hands and set out over the whole earth . . .
In the shelter of the trees I traveled,
Seeking everywhere what I did not find.
I came to a great plain and I fell prone upon my face and slept there.
There my brother came to me, face to face.
I threw out my arms to embrace him,
But they closed empty on my own breast.
My face was streaked by my tears . . .
WILLIAM BLACKWATER
“Orphan Boy” recitative (traditional O’odham oratory), translated by Ruth Benedict with unknown Pima collaborators

Here the statements of the Pimas . . . are of special value. . . . [They claim] the [Hohokam] pueblos fell one after the other, until the Pimas, driven from their homes, and moreover, decimated by a fearful plague, became reduced to a small tribe.
ADOLF BANDELIER
Fifth Annual Report of the Archaeological Institute of America, 1883-1884

Cibola 107

This entry is part 106 of 119 in the series Cibola

Marcos (6) (conclusion)

Well, no sense
in testing the patience of my guides
any further. I don’t know
at what distance the Act
would lose its efficacy: from this
promontory I ought to be able
to establish the crown’s claim to all
the souls in three directions.

This looks like a good spot for a cross, plenty
of oblong rocks to pile up. Odd,
though, how some look almost
like animals, six-knobbed–
like this gray-green stone
in my hand: a carver’s
discarded blank, I guess.
I turn it over

& over. These tensed limbs,
if that’s what they are, the low-
slung head & suggestion of a tail
put me in mind
of something swift & strong.
It slips easily
into my lambskin wallet:
a memento to cheer me on the long
road back.

I want to keep this clarity as long as I live.
__________

the Act: I.e., the Act of Possession. See here.

some look almost like animals: the Zuni regard their famed fetish stones more as found objects than works of art; their unfinished appearance is partly what identifies them as raw beings. They are believed to have once been living animals, turned to stone by bolts of lightning from the twin war gods in order to prevent them from ravaging human beings, and to give hunters access to their superior predatory power.

Cibola 106

This entry is part 105 of 119 in the series Cibola

Marcos (6) (cont’d)

Beyond this bluff they say we’ll get
a view. There

on the plain. Fields
already green, a distant river glinting . . .

See how that hill rears up
like the hull of a capsized galleon!

And floating in its lee, the long-
sought citadel.
From here it looks like four, five,
six–yes, seven layers
mounting up like clouds
swollen with rain,
shot through with light.

I’ve never seen such an absolutely clear,
such a clean air
as this! And it smells
so sweet, simply to breathe
could require a hundred Hail Marys
in penance. It makes
the city seem close, as if I could stretch
out a hand & pinch between finger
& thumb those ant-like figures
swarming up & down the walls–
Lord forgive me.

Was Mexico in its heyday ever
so salubrious, so full of industry?
St. Francis, I give this whole land
thy holy name. Perhaps
through its power these people
can be tempered
like the wolf of Gubbio.
God willing, thy mendicants
can come to all these principalities
& bring them under the gentle
yoke of Christ. Can instruct them
in the holy days & fast days,
the Sabbath, the communion.
Give them better
tools & crops, perhaps
even sheep . . .

Though they may be less
in need of correction than most.
Who can blame them for being hostile?
The Spanish have been in New Spain
for twenty years, they must’ve
heard something.

No doubt the Negro was simply
too bold, too wild. Too free
with the fair sex–though of course
no conquistador. And as much
as he claimed to cure
through faith, he sure
made a show of his prowess
with pagan rattles. It’s not
for me to judge, of course–
& Scripture shows
God sometimes
loves a scoundrel . . .
__________

it smells so sweet: Thanks to the recent thunderstorm. “I don’t know how a person could ever describe that scent. It certainly wasn’t sour, but it wasn’t sweet, either, not like a flower… To my mind it was like nothing so much as a wonderfully clean, scrubbed pine floor.” – Barabara Kingsolver, The Bean Trees

like the wolf of Gubbio: According to legend, St. Francis once tamed a wolf that had been preying on livestock and people around the Italian city of Gubbio, negotiating a peace deal whereby the wolf ceased all predation in return for regular feeding by people.

Via negativa and the road to hell


Inside the exclosure, a bed of wildflowers. Outside: the deer park. Well-intentioned nature-lovers and humanists of the 19th century won government support for the elimination of all large carnivores from Penn’s Woods.

1. In time, any paradise would grow cloying; one would long for the imperfect and the unpredictable.

2. But paradise by definition is a place uniquely capable of satisfying desire. If it were imperfection and unpredictability the mind craved, it would find them there.

3. Then how does paradise differ from the present world? Solely in the incommensurability between desire and its realization. If only one could learn to learn to desire whatever time and chance send, one would find a paradise in the present.

4. But for that to happen, something would have to change in the way one desires. It could no longer consist of longing for something else, something beyond or outside the present moment.

5. How do we know that the category “desire” is as singular as human languages suggest? A craving for food is very different from a craving for sex, for truth, for music, for possessions, for an addictive drug, for excitement, for the sublime, and so forth. Paradises begin to multiply faster than fruit flies.

6. A whole family of related desires aims at something short of paradise, as traditionally conceived: comfort, security, tranquility. These cannot be trivial, since they seem to be the focus of a great deal of church- and temple-going.

7. “As traditionally conceived”: etymologically, a walled garden. And intrinsic to the idea of paradise, heaven, Buddha-realm, etc. is the notion that it has limits. It cannot be universal. Any attempt to make it so presumes the destruction of the present universe and everything in it. If history teaches anything, it is this: hell hath no fury like a utopian scorned.

8. Augustine thought that the chief joy of souls in heaven would consist in the contemplation of the suffering of the damned below, in hell. From the extremism of his youthful Manichaean beliefs, according to which spirit and matter, saintliness and sinfulness have absolutely nothing in common, he grew to see these things as in some measure symbiotic.

9. Without the possibility of evil, how can the good be good? If one fails to commit evil acts simply because the option is unavailable, how could any action be considered good? Those who long for a universe in which evil would be impossible, and those who fault Whomever for allowing evil to persist: aren’t they simply longing for totalitarianism?

10. Unlimited perfection is a logical impossibility, because for something to be understood as perfect, it must be commensurate with the limited human imagination. No matter how intricate and well working, a machine lacks soul: which is to say, the ability to transcend and defy its apparent purpose. A perfect world, as we understand such a thing, would be devoid of life.

11. At this point, the maze of arguments begins to seem endless. It seems to me that the harder one tries to find a solution that satisfies all cases, the more blind alleys one wanders into. That’s because the very premise of the search is flawed. If life is not machine-like, then it cannot have any comprehensible purpose or meaning.

12. But to stop there and declare that life is meaningless is equally foolish, because it simply reinforces attachment to the feeling that things should have easily comprehensible purposes. Life transcends all considerations of meaning or non-meaning. I could state that existence is inherently mysterious, but at this point, all essentialist statements begin to seem vacuous. Paradox is the only way forward – if forward is indeed where we want to go.

13. This fundamental capacity of nature to elude our grasp is precisely what makes this seemingly archaic notion of paradise or heaven so attractive to me: heaven not as an afterlife destination, but as something basically “at hand,” as Yeshua ben Yosef preached.

14. “Hell is other people,” said Sartre. But suppose one gives oneself up: not as a surrender, but as a conscious gift. This is the bodhisattva’s vow, to forestall one’s own transcendence until all sentient beings have achieved similar transcendence. “For the love of God,” Meister Eckhart advised, “get rid of God.”

15. Paradise is others. Paradise is the world in the midst of creation, which is on-going. The sabbath is not-yet.

16. Only hell is self-sufficient and bounded by walls that cannot be breached: the autonomous ego writ large. To those who inhabit it, it looks very much like paradise. It is safe and tranquil and every bad deed is punished, every good deed rewarded. All hearts beat as one, burning in the fires of unquenchable desire.

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CASSANDRA’S LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT

Limits?
There are no limits to this life.
The cup can be brimming over with pain
but there are always more chalices.

Don’t speak to me of soil when you mean shit.
Don’t exalt sacrifice
in the slaughterhouse.
Speak the truth if you can:
that the gods draw their strength
from the dead alone–like mushrooms,
like mold, like the must
that turns water to wine.

Listen you lovers of youth, an augury
Apollo would have me suppress:
Know others as thyself
if you crave ambrosia.

I leave you
intimate communion
with every breath.

Cibola 105

This entry is part 104 of 119 in the series Cibola

Marcos (6)

Spirit, guide me now,
direct my steps.
Out of the thirty elders who joined us
for the last leg of the trip–crossing
this high despoblado lousy
with lightning-scarred little trees
tortured by the wind–
only two have stayed with me.
They scarcely bother to hide
their disgust.
As if I, from a week’s
journey away, could’ve saved
their townsmen from the Cibolans’
clubs & arrows!
Every time I move my lips in prayer
I get black looks. Good thing
that thunderstorm hit when it did,
the downpour turning the embers
of rage to melancholy.

If I die short of completing this mission
& submitting a final report, no matter.
Others will come & see
what I’ve seen–a mission field
fertile beyond belief. I know
my Redeemer liveth . . .

But these poor Indians
so many hundreds of leagues
from their homes–& so far,
yet, from the blessed
assurance of heaven–I can’t
abandon myself to God
while their souls still need my guidance.
Faithful beyond any I’ve
missionized among, these Sonorans.

And when Coronado comes,
he won’t be merciful
if I’m not alive
to stay his hand: so even
these other Indians, little though
they know it, need me,
a living dog.
__________

when Coronado comes: Marcos will in fact accompany the Coronado expedition to Cibola the following year, and will suffer humiliation and ostracism when “Cibola” turns out to hold no treasures whatsoever, contrary to his glowing report. He will, however, help to prevent Coronado from wreaking vengeance on the Ashiwi for their initial resistance to conquest.

a living dog: “For to him that is joined to all the living there is hope: for a living dog is better than a dead lion.” Ecclesiastes 9:4.

Right then

The iodized salt psychic has a framed certificate from the board of health mounted behind his rickety office desk. Why, I wonder, is my imagination cluttered with such useless things? Why do I remember that dead leaf on the driveway, turning over like the page of a well-thumbed volume perused by the wind? What does it mean – if anything – that a black cat not merely crosses my path day and night, but is raising three kittens in the barn, all as feral as she? Are all of them black? Yes, as black as the jack of diamonds – aside from the parts that are white, of course. Have you been missing any songbirds? How many should we have? How many do you hear? All of them, I think. But sometimes I sleep with my windows shut.

This morning it was chilly but beautiful. I woke late and sat out on the porch watching, well, everything there was to watch. It’s not as easy as it sounds, because my attention kept wandering back to an erotic dream I’d had. You know. It had me whispering sweet nothings in the morning’s ear: “All my life has been nothing but a preparation for this moment.” Which one? The sun works its way down the side of my house, but I keep my eyes on the woods. Dew drips from the eaves. Yesterday I went to an auction of old farm tools and was thrilled and mesmerized by the auctioneer’s cadence, but I’m not thinking about that right now. I’ve gone 180 degrees, in fact: I’m busy jotting down some haiku in my little reporter’s notebook, which all day long at the auction never left my pocket.

Cool morning.
Crystal-clear air carries
a whiff of sewage.

Indigo bunting,
yellow warbler trade songs –
same syllable count.

Chilly morning.
A chipmunk stops to scold
in a patch of sunlight.

One drums, the other yammers:
the pileateds agree
to disagree.

When the sun clears the top
of the tall maple
I’ll go get breakfast.

And I do. Inside, it’s just another morning. Are there really still these same four walls? How strange! But I have work to do. I need to stop thinking about what I’ve been thinking about and think about something else, I think, and at the very moment I’m thinking this, something goes bump in the crawl space under the floor. Bump, it goes. Gee, thanks, Doc! I’m glad you agree.