《诗歌欣赏：Cachoeira》-美文赏析-写作素材-范文大全-范文网

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诗歌欣赏：Cachoeira

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诗歌欣赏：Cachoeira

by Marilyn Nelson

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．

随便看

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