Guatemala

Guatemala

Is a small proud woman

Wearing all the colors

Of her ancient country.

She has long black hair

That swirls like water at night

She looks out at the world with dark eyes.

Guatemala is a volcano called Fire

Puffing smoke like an old man with his pipe.

Also volcanoes of Water

And mud  

Centuries of eruption, corruption

And change, no rest or respite.

Guatemala is repression

In many forms.

By religion, by the government, by America, by the rich.

The violence of centuries.

Brutalized, colonized, 

Dehumanized. 

Guatemala is a sacred Maya lake called Atitlan,

“The place where the rainbow gets its colors”

Created by a caldera. 

The wise and ancient Tz'utujil culture

Flourished here, with reverence for the female and male

In all things.

Guatemala is a small boy on a lancha

traveling over the contaminated lake with his grandfather, 

half asleep standing up.

His older sister dressed in an old purple tutu,

A favorite of little girls all over our world,

gazing out at the uncertain lake before her, her future.

 

Guatemala is a comadrona recognized in a wall mural

In San Pedro, a woman with green eyes

And a don, a calling.

Devoted midwife of six generations of babies,

hiking up and down mountains to her clients,

Supporting women in the life-changing process of birth.

Guatemala is fields on steep hillsides

Filled with growing greens,

Corn, sugarcane, vegetables, coffee, beans

Subsistence farming with everyone working

Even the littlest children carrying heavy loads,

Trying to stave off malnutrition, a constant struggle to survive.

But,

Guatemala is a place where every green thing grows,

There are trees everywhere, old and young,

and so many birds singing

Hummingbirds flit in their inimitable buzzing flight

Magical delicate quick visitors, pollinating all the colours

of the flowers our eyes feast on.

And,

Guatemala is beauty, creativity, 

It is wide smiles that strangers don’t really deserve,

There are honours in abundance.

It is delicious food, coffee every morning

At a beautiful garden oasis, run by the two shy cousins,

We are given a touching gift on our last day.

Also,

Guatemala is a little old lady 

Trudging slowly home in the late afternoon light

Of Antigua, her shopping bag on her arm,

On her tired shoulder rides a beautiful Hummingbird moth,

at the end of the street, it takes wing and flies off

waving a wing, blessed by the old goddess.