All This Murmuring

Image from "New Orleans Vodoun Tarot"
Poetry Thursday

New Orleans wraps itself in the mystery of Vodoun. The religion is misunderstood as the Hollywood caricature of evil and the dreaded zombie. In reality, it's a complex and often beautiful belief system - but admittedly not for the weak of heart. The poem is written from the point of view of someone only familiar with Voudoun, not part of its inner circle. The piece describes the dance of the Mambos, but I think Baron Samedi needs a bit of an introduction. He's one of Vodoun's Guedes that is said to guard the crossroads where the spirit of the dead can cross in and out of this world and act as intercessor between the living and the dead. He also presides over love and resurrection. Baron Samedi wears a top hat, black coat tails, and sunglasses. He loves ambrosia cigars and has a propensity for rum.

All This Murmuring

I run into myself
crawling out of a manhole
on a street in New Orleans.
I tell myself,
"The old man's dead,"
but really - I think
he conjured a convenient senility
to disguise his secrets.
I ask, "Do I know where the children are?"
And, "Did I bake the sweet potato pie for after the funeral?"
And, "By the way, what was I doing down there anyway?"

For ten days I've hung this Gris-Gris
bag around my neck -
still I don't leave myself in peace.
I won't answer myself-
just remark that the stench
top side isn't much different,
then I remember the old man's
handkerchief still covers my face.

I complain
to stone angels -
"Don't I ever answer my questions?"
And, "Don't I have any respect for the dead?"
And, "Didn't I know Momma's bad nerves
were on account of my moods?"

I leave myself
to track the scent of Ambrosia,
go where the Mambos swirl
in their white dresses
inside a circle of Fire Lilies -
scattering cornmeal
so the Guedes will come to dance.

I sway on the brim of the wheel,
whisper in trickles of rum
while I hope for the tip of a hat-
even though we're strangers,
Baron Samedi might dance
with me - stop all this murmuring.

Superstition

(For Sunday Scribblings)

The lines between superstition,
myth and religion have always blurred into one another for me. Their literal meanings don’t hold the magic; I find the magic in what their symbols and language conjure up. It’s why I collect tarot cards – not to foretell the future, but to use my reactions to their images as a way to dig up what is going on beneath my surface. It’s like the way we can discover the multiple layers of meaning in a poem by paying close attention to its language. But it’s not the cards I want to write about. New Orleans has always been the most delicious concoction of superstition, myth and religion. A place that, even when I didn’t ask, has pressed her breath close to my ear and murmured her offerings. Sometimes I was thrilled with her gifts; other times it took me a while to warm up to them. She’s not always easy to fathom. Here’s a piece for her:

A moon hangs low and yellow while the bayou sits hourless. The white orchid tree offers up new blossoms to the night, one red drop pauses at the edge of a petal. A Screech owl’s stunned eyes search for its hunger. I sit behind the dragging branches of a Cypress, the echo of the city in my eyes and the heat over my mouth like a heavy hand. The Gris-Gris bag hangs damp between my breasts. Everything is waiting.