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詩歌欣賞:Cachoeira

時間:2021-06-14 12:55:33 詩歌 我要投稿

詩歌欣賞:Cachoeira

  by Marilyn Nelson

詩歌欣賞:Cachoeira

  We slept, woke, breakfasted, and met the man

  we'd hired as a tour guide, with a van

  and driver, for the day. We were to drive

  to Cachoeira, where the sisters live:

  the famous Sisterhood of the Good Death,

  founded by former slaves in the nineteenth

  century. "Negroes of the Higher Ground,"

  they called themselves, the governesses who found

  ed the Sisterhood as a way to serve the poor.

  Their motto, "Aiye Orun," names the door

  between this world and the other, kept ajar.

  They teach that death is relative: We rise

  to dance again. Locally canonized,

  they lead quiet, celibate, nunnish lives,

  joining after they've been mothers and wives,

  at between fifty and seventy years of age:

  a sisterhood of sages in matronage.

  We drove on Salvador's four-lane boulevards,

  past unpainted cement houses, and billboards,

  and pedestrians wearing plastic shoes,

  and little shops, and streets, and avenues,

  a park, a mall . . . Our guide was excellent:

  fluent in English, and intelligent,

  willing to answer questions patiently

  and to wait out our jokes. The history

  of Salvador flew past. At Tororo

  we slowed as much as the traffic would allow,

  to see the Orixas dancing on the lake

  in their bright skirts. The road we took

  sped past high-rise apartment neighborhoods,

  then scattered shacks, then nothing but deep woods

  of trees I didn't recognize and lands

  that seemed to be untouched by human hands.

  We stopped in a village, where it was market day.

  We walked among the crowds, taller than they

  and kilos heavier, tasting jackfruit

  and boiled peanuts, embraced by absolute,

  respectful welcome, like visiting gods

  whose very presence is good news. Our guide

  suggested a rest stop. We were sipping Coke

  when a man came into the shop and quietly spoke

  to our guide, who translated his request:

  Would we come to his nightclub, be his guests?

  We didn't understand, but shrugged and went

  a few doors down the street. "What does he want?"

  we asked. The club hadn't been opened yet;

  by inviting us in, the owner hoped to get

  our blessings for it. Which we humbly gave:

  visiting rich American descendants of slaves.

  For hours we drove through a deep wilderness,

  laughing like children on a field-trip bus.

  We made a side trip to the family home

  of Bahia's favorite daughter and son,

  the Velosos, Bethania and Caetano,

  in the small town of Santo Amaro.

  The greenery flew by until the descent

  into a river valley. There we went

  to a nice little restaurant to dine

  on octopus stew, rice, manioc, and wine.

  Then we crossed a rickety bridge behind a dray

  drawn by a donkey, and wended our way,

  at last, to Cachoeira, an old town

  of colonial buildings, universally tan

  and shuttered, darkly lining narrow streets.

  A tethered rooster pecked around our feet

  in the souvenir shop. At the convent

  I wondered what the statues really meant:

  Was it Mary, or was it Yemanja

  in the chapel, blue-robed, over the altar?

  Was it Mary on the glass-enclosed bier,

  her blue robe gold-embroidered, pearls in her hair,

  or was it the Orixa of the sea?

  There were no Sisters around for us to see;

  they were in solitude, preparing for the Feast

  of the Assumption, when the Virgin passed

  painlessly from this world into the next,

  Aiye to Orun. Posters showed them decked

  out for their big Assumption Day parade,

  big, handsome mamas wearing Orixa beads,

  white turbans and blouses, red shawls, black skirts.

  The man in their gift shop was an expert

  on the Sisters' long struggle to find a way

  to serve the Christian Church and Candombl .

  The eldest Sister is called "the Perpetual Judge";

  every seventh year, she becomes the bridge

  on which the Virgin Mary crosses back,

  sorrowing love incarnate in a black

  ninety-odd-year-old woman facing death

  and saying Magnificat with every breath.

  We drove out of the valley looking back

  on lightbulbs which intensified the thick,

  incomprehensible, mysterious

  darkness of the unknown. Grown serious

  and silent in our air-conditioned van,

  we rode back into the quotidian.

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