Janet Ruhe-Schoen, born in Allentown, Pa., left that green cradle at 18 with gypsy longings and eventually landed in Peru and Chile. During her 13 year residency in Latin America she was a singer, actress, English teacher, journalist, but, mostly, mother to four children, and always a poet. She now lives in New York State, does some free-lance journalism and works in a library. In 1998, Palabra Publications published her book of biographies of nine great Baha'is, A Love Which Does Not Wait. Her work has appeared in Calyx, New Milennium Writings, Arts Dialog and other places.Janet Ruhe-Schoen
Black Grapes*
In my fantasy Spanish America,everyone speaks the language of Neruda
in voices full and deep and beautifully harsh,
textured like desert night with desert stars -
no, no water;
the stars are water.
Era el otoño de las uvas...
It was the grapes? autumn...
I remember autumn, when grapes were old.
their nectar insipid,
and woodsmoke hung on the air
with the scent of horses and cold clouds -
no, no water;
the stars are water.
Temblaba el parral numeroso...
The laden arbor shivered...
I can see the old hands of the abuela
reaching up, cutting bunches to bring inside,
to put on the table, to serve with toasted flour.
You roll each grape in flour until it is coated,
and then you pop it into your mouth
and it's like eating the arbor and the dry earth under it-
no, no water;
the stars are water.
Los racimos blancos velados
escarchaban sus dulces dedos...
The veiled white clusters had
frost-bitten sweet fingers...
Yes, I know the sugary substance of eyes and smiles
hiding behind virginal veils their frozen
malignancies, griefs, superstitions, envies, nightmares -
no, no water;
the stars are water.
Y las negras uvas llenaban
sus pequeñas ubres repletas
de un secreto río redondo...
And the black grapes filled
their small udders full
from a secret, round river...
It is clear to me, even after years away:
the secret round river that can't
reflect the stars because it is
within skins
runs,
and does not leave any of us alone,
not the poets, not the artesans hammering shapes
in red-gold copper, not the students in parochial clothes.
It is clear to me, even after years away:
my inner Spanish America is a female continent,
moistureless between salt seas,
deep in her darkness a grape so tart,
so bittersweet, so deadly
that it can be tasted only drop
by amethyst
drop -
no, no water;
the stars are water.
*Italics in "Black Grapes" are quotations from "El Otoño de las uvas" by Pablo Neruda. Translated by J.R-S.
Red-Orange Moon
She'd always loved red-orangelike the moon when it harbingers hard times,
like the fire inside the oven door.
She'd often remarked on its beauty
when she baked bread.
One day, she forgot her bread.
She got ahold of our paints
and painted her hair.
I remember how it looked,
the red orange on her white hair
that she hadn't pulled back into its metal clasp
that morning.
She was Abuela,
venerable expert on bread and beauty and hard times,
but suddenly she was just a little girl
playing with fire -
suddenly, she fell.
The fine bones of her cheeks
sparked like butterfly wings
beneath her startled eyes;
then her eyes closed
and her hand curled
over her heart.
The doctor came and with my father
lifted her to her bed.
My mother wept.
My father shut the door.
Deep in the night,
my mother still wept
and I heard my father say,
"Three days at most, and she'll be gone.
It's more merciful."
But Paolo and I
did not believe in mercy.
We snuck into Abuela's room.
We sang her the songs she used to sing to us,
pulled her curled hand away from her heart,
pried her sealed eyes open, cleansed her.
and with a dropper we fed her fresh water
like dew.
Abuela was eighty then.
She's one-hundred now.
Every morning she gathers her hair
into its metal clasp,
kneads and bakes her bread.
Evenings, she takes her stick
and walks up the hill to watch the moon
in any weather -
white moon, yellow moon,
blue, red-orange --she'll stand it;
she'll stand our kind of love
that's so much stronger than mercy.
Revisiting the silver and blue of my childhood -Imagining Elijahnot Aloneland, the abyss left by Nazi minesweepers,
but the midnight blue horizon of legend adorned
with constellations: Esther, Ruth, Naomi, Jacob, Joseph
and Elijah, Angel of the Open Door -
I imagine Elijah.
Each Passover, I was the one who left the table quickest
to run and open the door for him,
but no one's eyes
deep with all knowing
answered my eyes.
I wasn't really disappointed...
didn't really expect...
but what if he'd been there? Elijah
in a white three-piece suit, white Panama hat,
red carnation in his lapel, smoking a Panatela
asking to see my Dad business;
or Elijah in Biblical robes,
long ancient face twisted sideways in a rictus of sorrow, eyes disconcertingly gold as the Pesach moon,
holding out a narrow palm, requesting to see
the Master of the House;
or Elijah in a plaid shirt,
rocking back on his heels,
unpasting the Marlboro from his lip,
scratching the palm of a calloused hand
saying his pick-up's broke down -
What is this poverty of vision?
Why can't I see
the man who would be invisible in any crowd
until he started to sing? Standing
dark with the grief of five thousand years
rock-still among all the moving shadows of the April night.
La vida es subversiva. El amor es el agitador.Song for Violeta Parra(Life is subversive. Love is the agitator.)
- Graffiti, Santiago del Chile, 1984
The violets of yesterday
will bloom again tomorrow,
There will be no end to joy,
no end to sorrow.
The hawks up in the shining sky
hunger as they soar;
They must drop down to earth to kill,
then rise and fly once more.
The rose smells sweetest drenched with dew,
its velvet glistens bright;
a gloved hand breaks the stem in two
to give, for love, tonight.
The violets of yesterday
will bloom again tomorrow;
there will be no end to joy,
no end to sorrow.
Now the rain falls lovely, lovelyNow the Rain Falls Lovely, Lovely
on the Plaza del Mayo and the poor cherry tree,
cherry that sighed long and slowly sickened
for lack of morning's liquor from a loving sky.
Now the rain falls lovely, lovely
on the plaza, the red fruit, and the sigh.
