The Story Teller
She lived in a small village
On a tall dry mesa the size of ours.
She did what you do.
But her ears heard more than sounds.
You hear me talk
And know I am bigger than my words:
They come from inside me.
This girl heard a word,
But it wasn’t inside her.
She was inside the word.
She stayed as still as the
Stone canyon walls,
And let herself be spoken.
That word, which made
The desert and the sky,
The mesas and the arroyos,
The rain and the girl,
That great word of our Grandfather
Loved the girl
And became so small
He lived inside her
As you lived inside your mother once.
What became of that Word-Boy
Is another story.
Today, simply listen.
She is your mother, and
Gives you special ears
To hear more than sounds,
More than coyotes,
Rain, thunder
And wind.
You will hear your name,
And you will know what you must do.
You will walk in beauty,
Laugh and weep in beauty,
Because the girl is beauty
And your mother,
The Mother of Millions,
From a tall dry mesa
The size of ours.
This poem is based on the Storyteller ceramic tradition begun by Helen Cordero (1915-1994) in Cochiti, New Mexico. Watch a video introduction to her work here.
I post The Storyteller in celebration of the Advent feasts of the Immaculate Conception on December 8 and Our Lady of Guadalupe on December 12. If you want to learn more about Guadalupe, read Guadalupe, Mother of the New Creation, by Virgilio Elizondo.
I have always loved this poem of yours, but seeing it here on Sand and Sky with the photos of my ceramic sculpture and the red mesas really makes it come alive!