Five Poems by Wilda Morris

 

Walking Guanajuato

 

I circle Jardin Unión in late afternoon,

dodging mariachi bands. I pull out coins,

pay a strolling guitarist to sing La Bamba.

After ambling to la Plaza de la Paz, I stop

for tortilla soup at a sidewalk café,

cross to the Basilica. Nuestra Señora de Guanajuato

beckons from her glass case.

I dip onto a kneeler and cross myself,

Catholic style, then sit a while, my eyes

travelling across the altar. Determined

to explore every bell-ringing church

of the city, to circumnavigate sanctuaries,

seek out statues of saints,

I rise and set out for San Roque.

 

Seeing the Knight of the Sorrowful Face,

in whose story centuries of readers found refuge,

I feast on paintings and sculptures

in the museum dedicated to the knight,

his squire, and his lady, Dulcenea.

After hiking up the 113 massive stone steps

of the university, I investigate museums

hidden within its walls, the wide atrium

that exits onto Callejón del Estudiante.

 

I stroll the Callejón de la Condesa,

named for the Countess of Rul, so distraught

by the Count’s unfaithfulness and the sneers

of neighbours she only used the back door.

 

I wander up ancient alleys, sometimes

merely steps steep enough to make

my knees protest and my feet complain,

while my eyes drink in the colours

of painted houses: baby blue, gold,

cinnamon, maroon.

Scrambling up to the balcony

on Callejón del Beso I fancy I see Luis,

the forbidden suitor, across the narrow alley,

holding Doña Carmen’s hand,

giving it one last kiss as it turns cold

after her father stabs her.

 

One night, I eat the mandatory meal

at Truco 7, where a man gambled away

his fortune and his wife to the devil.

Then I slink through the subterranean

tunnels, to see if they are really haunted

by the ghosts of monks distraught

by the demolition of an old abbey.

 

In one week, I explore every museum

from the Casa Diego Rivera to the Museo

Del Pueblo. I stride up another hill,

pay my respects to the French doctor,

little girls dressed as angels, boy saints

and the others mummified in the cemetery.

 

I plop down at a sidewalk café

in the Plaza del San Fernando,

order chamomile tea,

and watch as mothers push strollers,

teen girls sashay by, young men

stride across cobblestones

as if they owned the world,

venders trudge along with push carts,

and children skateboard,

while my feet cool and prepare

for my next adventure.

 

Hot Chocolate at la Biblioteca

 

There are two big bubble eyes

on the top of my hot chocolate,

a small dent that might be a mouth.

I consume this heat knowing

San Miguel de Allende may consume me,

spit me out Mexican. Each little freckle

on the cinnamon-brown face

is a Spanish word I need to learn,

a bright colour I cannot yet name,

a saint whose statue I don’t recognize,

another ranchera song breaking mi corazón, 

begging me to stay and sing along.

 

Souvenirs of Mexico

 

From street vendors, I bought

a handmade doll and a necklace.

I found a little book picturing ancient,

mostly ornate, doors of San Miguel

at a book shop.

 

But how can I explain the other souvenir

I brought home? It’s like this:

There’s a street, if you can call it that,

in Guanajuato, the Street of the Owl,

once the route of donkey caravans

with packs of silver from the mines.

It rises from what once was a ravine

to the top of the city. When I tired

of walking that long ramp up,

I chose sidewalks of uneven stairs.

 

On that warm, sunny January day

a small girl in a plaid jumper

pushed her wheeled book bag ahead of her,

caught up with it and shoved it again.

It clattered each time it fell.

I watched her, not where I stepped,

until my right leg crashed into a two-foot step,

creating a long gash.

 

Six months later, the little doll

with black hair tied in bright ribbons

sits in the corner of a bookshelf

where I notice her once in a while.

Ever so often, I wear the necklace.

The book? I flipped through the photos

when I unpacked. The souvenir scar

I see every morning when I dress for the day

and each evening when I prepare for bed—

a reminder of the callejons I love to walk,

those little alley-streets leading who knows where,

providing vistas of that ancient city so full of life.

 

Picnicking in Rural Mexico, 2007

 

We bring our sandwiches to the bank

of a free-flowing stream,

discover we have invited ourselves

to lunch at the local laundry

of the poor. Women bearing bundles

squat on flat rocks, dip, splash, scrub.

A señora in a bright blue dress

calls out to a boy who runs

along a path with his dog.

Two dark-haired girls balance

on wet rocks, splash in the water.

Their mothers laugh and sing,

sisterhood as sociable as a picnic.

 

Florrie Finds Me in Mexico

 

Wind

plays palm

leaves like strings

of a guitar.

Red poinsettias

wave bright blossoms like flags.

Cedars sway. I want to sing

a lullaby, to rock my first

granddaughter to the pulse of nature

on this warm afternoon in Mexico.

 

Here the dead whisper to the ones they love.

They live closer to the earth’s surface

and rise on the Day of the Dead.

Is that why you come today

to haunt me in this place?

I will celebrate,

pretend I hold

you again,

sing to

you.

 

 

Wilda Morris, Workshop Chair of Poets and Patrons of Chicago and a past President of the Illinois State Poetry Society, has published numerous poems in anthologies, webzines, and print publications, including The Ocotillo Review, Turtle Island Quarterly, Modern Haiku, and Journal of Modern Poetry. She enjoys experimenting with different forms and styles of poetry. Wilda has won awards for formal and free verse and haiku, including the 2019 Founders’ Award from the National Federation of State Poetry Societies. RWG Press published her first book of poetry: Szechwan Shrimp and Fortune Cookies: Poems from a Chinese Restaurant was published by RWGuild Press. Much of the work on her second poetry book, Pequod Poems: Gamming with Moby-Dick (published in 2019 by Kelsay Books), was written during a Writer’s Residency on Martha’s Vineyard. Her third full-length of poetry, At Goat Island and Other Poems is hot off the press from Kelsay Books (and available on the Kelsay website and on amazon.com. She is working on a book of poetry inspired by books and articles on scientific topics. 

Her poetry blog at wildamorris.blogspot.com featured a monthly poetry contest for more than fourteen years.