The Grief of La Llorona

Reposting La Llorona with a stanze including the mothers at the border. The poem also appears in the August 2018 edition of Ojo del Lago

Easy for a mother to grasp La Llorona,
despite each mean version in the myth
of her motives for ‘killing’ her children.
Every mother gives her children up.
The child for whom she would give her life
can never be retrieved from the river of time.
Every mother becomes
a Woman in White, endlessly crying.

She is the mother who asks,
*What is sorrow and what is not sorrow?
They are dead who do not weep.
The child divine become the suffering man,
and La Llorona, a living Pietá.

The flowers cry when she passes
and remembers her child
running to bring his Mama a bloom.
*Do not think because she sings
her heart is joyful. One also sings from pain.
If you see her weeping under a tamarind tree
or if you see her singing,
the Banshee ghost, the grieving mother,
know her haunting comes from being haunted.

I, too, wander the riverbanks
and notice every child who reminds me
of the beautiful boy who vanished
into the magnificent man.
The door of my heart always ajar
to the baby, the toddler, the child
who will never again walk through.
Every mother, La Llorona.

But especially those whose children
are ripped from their arms at the border,
and those whose children flee
to seek a better life,
whose sons and daughters ride the Beast Train,
their mothers never knowing
if their children live or die;
not even the tears of La Llorona,
though vast as all the oceans,
can plumb these mothers’ grief.

©Susa Silvermarie 2018

*lyrics of the song

In Lila Downs’ interpretation of the song, she compares the legendary La Llorona’s loss with the Spanish invasion of Mexico, resulting in the demise of indigenous culture. In her 2001 album, Border, Downs dedicated the song to the spirits of Mexican migrants who have died crossing the line.

Happy 100th, Mama!

 

 

 

 

 

My mother’s radiance the day she was born
and her beauty at one hundred years,
is a splendor that sings into timespace
with or without human remembering.

As every sound ever made on earth
reverberates, still, out into the multiverse,
never lost, never recallable,
so vibrations, the frequencies
of which we each are built,
and so my mother’s loveliness—
reaches out and out,
infinitely extending
into the expanding cosmos.

When I am gone, my molecules
will remember all their history.
My mother’s magnetic magnificence
will not have vanished or be spent.
She and I, home again in Greater Selves—
she and I, in other forms,
in configurations not yet known—
will venerate our earthly motherbond.

When she and I go back,
before our bornings here,
I will know her luminosity anew
in a present, singing moment.

My mother’s radiance the day she was born
and her beauty at one hundred years,
sings and sings beyond all time.

©Susa Silvermarie 2018

She Who Laughs, Lasts!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Old Ones Humming

There is a place where emerald mountains,
nearly meet the waters of the lake.
Their firm unwavering presence
murmurs constant reassurance
to the ones who live between,

tiny humans
on the narrow strip of land along the shore,
beings who do not tune
to any scale but theirs,
who rarely hear the Old Ones hum;
who barely hear the waters, in duet,
braid melody of love.

Still the softly greening mountains offer
the steadiness of their procession
of mounded breast and belly.
“I am here for you,” the round hills say.
“I recognize you dear ones at my feet.
Feel my quiet, lasting love.”

Today my ears are opening
to the blessing of my days between
the mountains and the sacred lake.
I begin to hear the susurration,
of the mountain Teachers.
their forests undisturbed and virgin.

Through the organ of my skin,
today I hear their thrumming love.
It hauls me to the moment.
Everything not here, not now,
made ash by their attending murmur,
I come present, with the presence
of the ancient, emerald mountains.

©Susa Silvermarie 2018

photography by Susa Silvermarie

photography by Susa Silvermarie

Above Ajijic

Passageway

The passageway is not below the ground,
not a cavern domed with secrets,
but a sturdy bridge
beneath a radiance of rainbows
in a collective brain that makes the worlds.

Accessible to every human ever born,
the passage wakes the family
up with rainbow light. Calls us to cross,
with courage and with curiosity,
the communal corpus callosum,
passageway to evolution.

Whee, let’s go! Take a step
into red; breaking rocks to lava,
churning fears to fire.
Your feet won’t burn, don’t worry—
It’s just the serpent circling.

By the second step
onto the rainbowed passageway,
your confidence rises
like kundalini.
Don’t stop now, let’s let

the yellow of sun consume our karma,
so we can high-step in the middle,
into emerald green,
the huge green heart of Gaia.

By now we may not recognize
our caterpillar selves
so changed in rainbow light.
But we can whirl our newness
into the true, blue song of healing.

On the bridge is the whole family.
Belonging lifts our song
to the united eye, where indigo vision
pitches us up
to the launching pad of the passageway.

The crowning at birth has nothing on this
commencement of full potential,
this vibration in violet that takes us
all the way to our rightful size.
Whee, let’s start! Take the step.
Let the rainbow passage take you Home.

©Susa Silvermarie 2018

photography by Susa Silvermarie

 

 

 

photography by Susa Silvermarie
Rainbow on the Mountains