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Lilvia Soto - 6 Poems & a Painting

Ana Edith Lopez

Homo labyrintheus

Homo labyrintheus spins

the magic thread that guides and saves

the fateful thread that leads the killer to his prey

then guides him out to freedom

lets him escape after he carries out his deed.

Double-edged thread spun by the dead man’s sister

who provides the clue to find the marked man

imprisoned in the center of his multicursal maze

the sword to slay him

and the thread to guide the killer to the exit.

She gives him a ball of fleece thread

to unwind from the entrance

through the twisted, convoluted, passageways

to the center of the prison

where he finds her brother sleeping

an easy target for his murderous intent

then, after slaying him

rewinds the red thread back to the exit

and to the sister’s waiting arms.

In exchange for clue and thread

he had promised to wed the princess wench

but, as it is not hard to betray a betrayer

he abandons her while she sleeps

on the Isle of Naxos

and goes back to his land a hero

for having rescued

the young Athenian men and maidens

who had in the labyrinth awaited

to be devoured by Ariadne’s half-man

half-bull hybrid brother.

They were the yearly war tribute her father

King of Crete, had exacted from the Athenians. 

Theseus had volunteered to slay the monster

and rescue his countrymen, and, succeeding

becomes an Ionian founding hero.

But what happens to faithless Ariadne

when the object of her lust abandons her

while she sleeps alone in Naxos?

Some say that Dionysus

rescues and marries her.

Others whisper that following the examples

of Arachne, Erigone

and other weaving goddesses

she hangs her wretched spite

from the branches of a tree.

And why does Minos, King of Crete

want to keep his stepson

locked in the prison built by Daedalus?

Could it be he wishes to conceal

the fruit of his wife’s betrayal

the undeniable proof that she cuckolded him

not with a mortal or a god

but with a bull

a snow-white bull of extraordinary beauty

Poseidon sent forth from the sea?

Minos asks Poseidon to send him the sea bull

that will certify him worthy of the Cretan throne

but attempting to deceive the god

he sacrifices in his honor an ordinary bull

instead of the snow-white gift from the sea

he intends to keep as leader of his herd.

Poseidon takes revenge

and causes Minos’s wife Pasiphae

daughter of Helios

to develop an uncontrollable lust

for the handsome bull of the splendid horns.

She begs Daedalus to help her gratify her passion

and he builds for her a hollow wooden heifer

disguised with the pelt of a live one

to deceive the bull into engaging in amorous intercourse

with the lascivious queen who hides inside the timber cow.

When her son Asterion is born

with the body of a man

the head of a bull

the destiny of a star

they call him Minotaurus

and ask the royal architect to build

a winding, convoluted, prison

to contain and hide the hybrid fruit of her betrayal.

The half-man, half-animal monster

imprisoned in the center of the labyrinth

is testament to the queen’s lust

for life’s darker powers

and to her betrayal of the king

but the stud bull that, deceived by the sight of

a healthy heifer grazing in a sunny pasture

fathered the Bull-man

would not have tempted Pasiphae

had Minos sacrificed it to Poseidon and

by honoring his promise to the god

internalized the virile prowess of the bull.

But protecting the honor of the ruler is only

the expedient raison d’état

for the unconfessed motive for ensconcing Asterion

is his very nature

and our fear of the other

the foreigner, the immigrant, the barbarian

who speaks words we do not comprehend 

the mestizo, the mulatto, the half-breed

all those of mixed bloods or uncommon yearnings

in our midst

the poet, the mystic, the visionary, the madman

we dare not look in the eye

for we push back into the deepest recesses

the ctonic force

the unresolved conflict

the formless restlessness

the desire we dare not utter

the fear of coming face to face

with what we sense and long for

but cannot name

the nostalgia for all the darkness we bury

in the bottom of our minds’ oceans

and all the light that would crown us gods

if we dared look in the distant galaxies of our hearts.

With the Minotaurus locked in the sacred mandala

the Bull-man’s pulsing heart rises

as Helios in the firmament

to the realm of spirit

and, except for Ariadne’s fratricide

Minos might have learned to walk

the winding pathways of his labyrinth

to reach its mysterious center

and become the Sol King

with no need of schemes

betrayals

foreign assassins

winding prisons

snow-white studs

or double-edged red threads.

Autumn Still Life

(After Pablo Neruda)

I bring home three, make plans for a feast

look up recipes

take pleasure in imagining them stuffed with oysters

à la Prudhomme.

Stunned by their fullness

I dream of being Benjamín

painting them over rose petals.

When other activities intervene

the artichokes spend the night in a black clay bowl.

The next evening I prepare garlic and tarragon

and ponder the advantages and disadvantages

of amontillado vinegar over lemon juice

for the steaming basket.

I remember alternative uses for the pale green hearts

that in Seville I ate them fried in olive oil and

reveling in their Spanish name alcachofa

remember it comes from the Arabic al-kharshuf

also that Neruda praises them for their proud martial posture.

I had never seen artichokes like these

with such long stems and large, lustrous globes.

I admire the terseness of their olive skin

their complex, rosaceous structure

the bracts that curl around in circles of succulence

cloister the translucent purple leaves

protect the silky choke.

After a week

I acknowledge they are past their savory prime

but continue to admire their fading beauty

insisting that, surrounded by pink roses

they would still fulfill their vocation

as a theme for Benjamín.

On the underside of the bracts appear creamy tones that

flowing in coppery brown striations

blend into the skin as it loses its terseness.

Their succulence becomes brittle

develops a rich wooden patina

that highlights their rosaceous complexity

their architectural integrity.

After a fortnight, I understand that their tender hearts will forever remain

a mystery

but with the dance of lights and shadows of their decline

the aura of roses persists

perfumes the night.

The third week I take them out of the black clay

discover the blue lavender striations

growing on their undersides

position them in my daughter’s old basket 

over coppery foliage of the smoke bush

cradled in old roses. 

Baskets of Gold or Lemons Are Not Limones

--After Frank Gaspar

(For Kameron Dawson)

El limonero lánguido suspende

una pálida rama polvorienta

sobre el encanto de la fuente limpia,

y allá en el fondo suenan

los frutos de oro...

               - -Antonio Machado, "Soledades, VII"

I have no childhood memory of lemons

for I grew up with limones.

I remember limonada

té de limón

my mother's pastel de limón

and flor de limón fragrance

wafting through Aunt Olga's Cuernavaca home.

On warm summer evenings

looking at her picture

I can smell it still.

The dictionary says "lemon" is English for limón,

but lemons are not limones, and

for the limonada I enjoyed as a child

I need limones, not lemons.

The nieve de limón I made when Tito Nacho

bought me a hand-cranked wooden bucket

for making my very own sorbet called for limones.

That was the only time I asked him to buy me something.

Tito was a general in the Mexican army,

and Father had said only generals could buy neveras.

He was just a captain, and I could not wait.

Aguacates call for limones when they wish to become

guacamole, and so do chiles when they are hot

to be salsa.

Limones are needed to squeeze into broth

sprinkle on fish, summer tomatoes

salads of watercress

to rim margarita glasses, and mingle with

Cuervo añejo and Grand Marnier.

Ceviche is in need of limón

British gin prefers it too,

but Bananas Foster and Spanish sangría

with their international preference

blend the lemon with the limón.

Limón is what I used as a child

to bleach the blue ink that stained my sheets

when I studied in bed,

but lemon might have worked as well.

For a child's stand where Grandfather can quench

his summer thirst, and, for a nickel, make Kameron

feel like a tycoon, lemons are de rigueur.

The lemons that Mom can cut and Kamie can squeeze into

a pitcher of water sweetened and iced

will make of him a young American entrepreneur.

While I think the flavor of the limón is superior

I must admit lemons have the edge in the history of art.

There are more famous paintings of lemons in baskets

next to decanters

cut into slices on platters of fish

than there are of limones.

It may be their fit-in-the-hand voluptuousness

their thick, textured skin

or, as I believe,

their color

for forsythias stirring from their winter slumber

dress themselves in lemon yellow

which can also adorn fragrant freesias

bashful pansies, joyful canaries

a baby's bonnet, the polka dots

on a girl's white cotton dress.

As golden as the lemon are Easter’s dawn

I’ll cherish you forever in a beloved’s ring

a locket with a baby’s first hair

the Virgin's halo 

the heart of the honeysuckle

light on earth

the bees' holy offering.

bone music

(For Nora Nickerson)

now she knows what happened and can bury him next to his father

have a place she can visit

talk to him

say she worried when he didn’t come home

         her face hurt when his was struck

         her back ached when his was kicked

         peed blood for weeks

         felt nauseous when he had to lick his slop off the floor

whisper she yearns for his bones at dawn, even now

she can tell him Muhammad, his little brother

         married and has three daughters

         that his young sister is childless and a widow

together they can talk about the sons he would have given her

the bag in her hand, like all the other bags

         in all the other trembling hands

         almost

         some heavier

         some missing a finger, a rib, a toe  

but who found the grave, who identified the bones?

his bones, like thousands in the mass grave

         indistinguishable to the police

         the gravediggers

         the indifferent eye

did she identify him by his faded shirt

         the one she made for his last birthday

         all those years ago?

his skull, not like any other

does she recognize his determined brow

can she see the pain where his lips were?

         the smile in his eyes

                   that disappeared when the beatings began

can she see the smile in the two holes

         with which he saw too much?

and his ears

         with which he listened to the oud

         and her gentle moans

what happened to his ears?

his ears

         with which he heard screams

                   that made him wish he was deaf

                   even if he could never again hear her murmurs

and his mouth, his smiling mouth

         his sweet, playful lips

                   now open like a chasm

                            that splits life

and dug with the bones, the questions:

what does it mean to die all this death?

she had the life of him, the hunger of him

         the play, the questions

         the song of him

                   but for an instant

she had the worry for years

now she will have the death

         all his death

         for the dawns of her life

and her sister-in-law, and her neighbor

and the women from the next village

         the women she just met

                   picking up their bags

they will have all the death of theirs

         all the days of their lives

what does it mean to hold in your hand

the bones that pressed against yours

the virtuoso bones that played the dulcimer with yours?

and who will imagine the cause for his death certificate?

         the eyes that smiled too much?

         the lips that kissed too tender

         the lips that could play soulful tunes on her musical reed?

         the plectrum fingers that could play her like the oud of heaven?

or will it be the loneliness of the dictator

         that he was tone deaf

         could not produce deep, mellow sounds

         liquid tunes

         floriture?

Dragon Heads

Then another sign appeared in heaven: an enormous red dragon with seven heads and ten horns and seven crowns on his heads. His tail swept a third of the stars out of the sky and flung them to the earth. The dragon stood in front of the woman who was about to give birth, so that he might devour her child the moment it was born.

- Revelation 12

 Abdul, you are so right

your dictator and mine, everybody’s dictator

they’re all nihilists.

They rape and kill

torture, pillage, imprison, and silence.

They murder the soul

because they don’t know they have one.

They destroy our civilization

because they are the children of Chaos.

They stomp on our humanity

because they don’t feel human.

Your dictator claimed he was afraid to kill sparrows.

Mine had a fun-filled childhood stuffing frogs with fireworks

blowing them up over proud Texas skies.

Your dictator’s smiling picture is in the coffeehouse

the brothel, the marketplace.

My dictator has a stupid smirk.

Our cartoonists have immortalized him

with huge floppy ears, small beady eyes, a tiny body

and silly cockroach legs stuffed in high-heeled Texas boots

dressed as a twelve-year-old playing Napoleon,

Superman, a monarch with tattered crown,

a pawn on a chess board where his vice-president is king,

the bride of the Religious Right,

a pouting child standing on a pile of books on top of a chair

handing out medals, stuttering

we don’t torture

it’s only enhanced interrogation.

Now, really, Abdul

do you think those pictures could hang over

every bed in the brothel,

especially in The Emperor’s Club

and other Washington establishments that cater to senators,

gobernors, and ambassadors?

The customers would laugh so hard

they would pee in their Fruit of the Looms

and the poor whores would be all out of business.

Your dictator banned the solar calendar

and abolished Neruda, Márquez, Amado.

My dictator doesn’t read, has never heard of Neruda

his wife is a librarian

who in her first year in the president’s house

invited a few poets for culture and tea.

When she heard they were planning to talk about

war and death, torture and freedom

she said, no, no, no, you naughty boys

we won’t have any of that.

It’s true we invaded two countries

but it’s for their own good,

we’re teaching those poor souls

about malls and Sunday shopping

and letting us have all that oil they don’t need.

Your dictator has given his name

to the squares, rivers, and jails of his homeland.

Mine wants his on a library.

He would also like to have it on a Washington monument,

Mount Rushmore, and the silver dollar.

If he’s lucky, they may rename Guantánamo after him,

create the Bushit Institute for Pseudo-Science

and call waterboarding the Bushnique.

Your dictator burned the last soothsayer

who failed to kneel before the idol.

They do that.

They burn, fire, demonize, and do extraordinary renditions.

They abu ghraib. They guantánamo.

Your dictator has doled out death as a gift or a pledge.

Mine doles out destruction to avenge his father’s honor

(in truth, to show his mother he’s more macho than the old man)

and for reassurance that he is “The Commander Guy”.

Your dictator’s watchdogs have stolen the people’s food.

My dictator and his Geppettos

have stolen the fruits without pesticides

the fish without mercury

the beef without additives

the shade of the trees

the sweet waters of the rivers

the fresh breezes of the morning.

Your deposed dictator was executed at home

because mine decided he should.

The hourglass restarts counting the breaths

of the dictators lurking everywhere

in the fund-raising party and the Supreme Court

in the Senate and the brothel

or are they the same?

2

From the Caribbean to China’s Great Wall

the dictator-dragon is born every day.

it’s April

 it’s April and Andalucía

with its tunic violet and blue

which is the color of blue aura and blue flame

firefly

and somersault of heart

which is jacaranda in bloom

and spring in paradise

for the tree of paradise

is not the apple

no, the apple is an invention

of scholars and scribes

who want secret and only for themselves

the tree of temptation

the tree that is rib, nerve, marrow

skin, artery

arms that clamor to heaven

and mouths that light up the night

lips and tongues and teeth that whisper

and tremble

and are the thousand mouths of the tree of desire

which is the color of lilac and lavender blue

and all the blues

of the jacaranda of Andalucía.

Lilvia Soto has taught Latin American and Latino literatura at Harvard and other American universities. She was the Resident Director of a Study Abroad Program for students from Cornell, Michigan, and the University of Pennsylvania in Sevilla, Spain. She has published poetry, short fiction, literary criticism, and literary translations in journals and anthologies in the United States, Canada, Spain, Mexico, Chile, Peru, and Venezuela. She has published essays and given lectures on Spanish, Spanish-American, and Chicano writers (Leopoldo Alas [Clarín], Octavio Paz, Carlos Fuentes, José Emilio Pacheco, Alejo Carpentier, Fernando del Paso, Salvador Elizondo, Guadalupe Villaseñor, Laura Esquivel, Lucha Corpi. She is a participating poet in the We Are You Project international (www.weareyouproject.org).