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Beauty
which Departs but Returns to Mixquic
Journalist
with a Borrowed Suit
Message
in Colors
Unnamed
Woman
with Somber Gaze
What
is Death?
A
Song For Mother
Xelaxhuaanas
Unnamed
2
The small floating
island travels through the canal.
- Open the door, mother! So that we can surprise
that wandering soul who has arrived at our offerings;
the mirrors of the waterways have blinded her...
but she can
feel her way, alone, to our house.
Prepare the food. That death may see
that this love of life we offer as a gift
so that she may better understand what the mystery
has bequeathed.
- Yes, dear
daughter. Our house, clean, welcomes our
visitor.
Lights. Incense. Tamales. Chairs.
The bed is made with flowers which we bought.
The little
floating house is beauty that traverses
by the unparalleled road of all the river banks
we get on and then... Will we return?
Julie Sopetran
(Spanish poet, 2000)
Source: Poem found in Mexico City, Mixquic & Morelos- Through
the Eyes of the Soul, Day of the Dead in Mexico
I am a cadaver
of the PRESS
I was born in a story;
in the most serious of news
I am the specialist.
I see many
die.
I am the true journalist;
transcribing my work
I was left with no skin.
My indepth
articles
provide reason for opinions;
under my blue suit, I hide
my bones and my heart.
Not to argue,
the PRESS has authority;
it brings what's necessary
if it's to report the TRUTH.
My style is to present the naked truth
since my suit is borrowed;
I like the raw news
and I outline the story.
Death beckons
me
she follows me;
if I don't write about her, she will come for me
or she will sentence me to oblivion.
The interview
torments me
I detest the transcription:
she doesn't bother with gossip
just the facts.
I research
the questionnaire
I like what is ethnocentric;
I am that skeleton in the closet
and they call me egocentric.
I have many
educated readers
who growl at me;
they are like adult children
forgetting death.
Subjective, impression,
bias from which we suffer;
Death without a heart
idea she doesn't deserve
I write for
those who think
my advice is precise;
I send my message through the intense
calling of notices.
My friend plays
the drums
announcing the carnage;
awaken into Love!
Without which you have nothing.
Come on! Read
the news
for in this world of excesses;
only he who thinks is saved
and the rest, are bones.
Don't look
at me if you are scared
but that coffin is my home;
if you can't handle its sight
its' better to take it in jest.
I am a professional
of the profession of providing news;
news-it's all evil
to be good is only ... sacrifice.
Diversity is
the secret
of being and enjoying;
playing the drums, dares
those who know how to Love.
And me as a
journalist
of the NEWS skinny and frank;
I invite you to run the show
bare and for no reason.
Bones and heart
to the wind
Who can stop us?
Not the internet, nor thoughts,
only those who can READ.
Julie Sopetran
(Spanish poet, 2000)
Source: Poem found in Mexico City, Mixquic & Morelos- Through
the Eyes of the Soul, Day of the Dead in Mexico
Lit
candles. Faces. Memories
and an entrance that's a rainbow: protection for the place
of rest and meditation.
Necklaces. Cempasuchitl, pre-Hispanic links, songs,
paper medals, flames talking to the wind
the diverse language departed.
It is the prime time of the celebration
or death's thread, threaded
through time's needle.
It is the decomposition of matter, transformed into art.
It is the final curtain awaken from death in Ocotepec.
Yes. An eternal dream of uncorrupt flowers and of
gibberish.
It is death's lament, fading away
and it is also the respect made a tribute.
Who could have imagined so much beauty on a tomb?
Mole. Glass of water. Copal. Salt. Prayers.
Firecrackers. Fruits. Bread. Music.
Corridos. Bolas. Romantic songs.
History, praised. Creativity, expressed
in its most raw form...
And it is the color purple, elegies in white, blue, pink.
It is a blow from grace so heightened as artificial fire
that reveals the soul's presence in the darkness.
Something like the flowering of martyrdon in flames.
An arrangement for the end or the posthumous splendor.
In Morelos everything is possible
gloom battles with life and its victor,
it is once again for a little which, happiness, live tradition
which overcomes reality.
It was before these ornate gravesites, when I knew
that in Ocotepec, as in my heart,
those that have departed return every year to remind us of
their love.
And that only LOVE can save us.
Julie
Sopetran
(Spanish poet, 2000)
Source: Poem found in Mexico City, Mixquic & Morelos- Through
the Eyes of the Soul, Day of the Dead in Mexico
Death has arrived
dancing the carisisqui
she has come to take with her
the visitors of Mixquic.
Tacho, Street
Poet
Source:
Poem found in Mexico City, Mixquic & Morelos- Through the Eyes
of the Soul, Day of the Dead in Mexico
Woman with
a somber gaze,
Tell me, what do you see if the candles?
are the ghosts in the night
or are they flowers of the earth?
What do you
treasure on your lap
illuminated and transparent,
even in the air
your silhouette appears?
Twice as much
the pain,
twice as much the loss,
the flowers have become the rivers
and the fragrance cries out.
Pondering at
night,
vigil of the imagination,
bundle of lights and echoes,
stay up late during the wake…
Woman with
a tender gaze
the flames of candle reach out;
are they mocking this moment
or are they restfully flickering out.
In your illuminated
face
life rejuvenates,
to those who love death
this is a golden in their sight.
For those who
love life
it is a night of confusion,
the wax kisses the flowers
and the flame caresses the emotions.
Julie
Sopetran
(Spanish
poet, 1995)
Source: Poem found in Michoacan- Through the Eyes of the Soul, Day of the Dead in Mexico
What is death?
It is the glass of life broken into a
thousand pieces, where the soul disperses like
perfume from a flask, into the silence of the eternal
night.
Unknown Author
Source: Poem found in Michoacan- Through the Eyes of the Soul, Day
of the Dead in Mexico
I sing, I sing, for it hurts to cry
And the “why?” rings in my mind;
with my hands I recreate beauty
and that is why I sing and sing so much…
…so much like a sorrowful night
that amid nature’s aroma
the moaning of music is purity
that sprouts out of the words of my song.
I am seduced be the sensation, so beautiful
of reliving the brief journey
that is a star’s cry.
It is my reminiscent Love letter;
I know that my song reaches her
Because I lay my soul in her memory.
Julie
Sopetran
Source: Poem
found in Oaxaca- Through the Eyes of the Soul, Day of the Dead in Mexico
Woman, you
guard the memories and you cry out:
your fruit of the earth flys away with the wind;
as the papel picado rattles and I feel
a language of aromas and flames.
Water for the
thirst that you claim
with the faith that stirs in the mind;
with such grandeur that is sorrow
of all that you suffer because you love.
You have brought
with you death’s scent
the burning incense is alive in the house
and on the sleeping mat lies what used to be:
butterfly that
pierces the air it traverses
and carries within its wings all which it has lived
its perfume is passion in all it touches
Julie Sopetran
Source: Poem found in Oaxaca- Through the Eyes of the Soul,
Day of the Dead in Mexico
It has been
so long since I have seen her,
it has been so long since I have visited her,
since the last day
I went to her tomb
to bring her flowers
Yesterday I
took the long road
to the cemetery
and I realized how profound
and unforgettable is her memory.
It has been
so long since I have seen her,
it has been so long since I have visited her.
Ignacio Garcia
Cuevas
Source: Poem found in Oaxaca- Through the Eyes of the Soul, Day of
the Dead in Mexico