This issue features
a special issue edited by Claire Joysmith dedicated to Mayan poetry,
photography by Kmiragaya,
photography by Philip Enticknap,
poetry by Ruperta Bautista,
photography by Miguel Angel Marin,
poetry by Pedro Uc Be,
photograph by Ulita,
poetry by María Elisa Chavarrea Chim,
poetry by A. Sasil Sánchez Chan, and
photography by Paul Dykstra.
Kmiragaya
Astronomical Observatory of the Ancient Mayan City of Chichen Itza, Mexico
© Kmiragaya.
Claire Joysmith
Introduction
The Maya language, in its thirty plus spoken variants, is still alive and kicking in Mexico’s southeastern states of Yucatán, Campeche and Chiapas, among others, and in countries such as Guatemala.
There are currently a number of Maya poets and narrative voices working hard to keep their language and culture alive, as perceived through a contemporary lens, in both rural and urban settings. Some of the most common themes, steeped in varying degrees of political activism, include a renewed focus on long-held community traditions and ceremonies, the importance of elders, of ancient spiritual and natural forces, as well as the changing roles for women.
As a tonal language, oral rather than written, it is also renowned for its innate rhythm and musicality. In this sense, there is —particularly among Yucatecan Maya youth— a singular contemporary trend of rap music that advocates pride in their identity and orality as Maya people.
The sad and overall reality, however, is that the Maya language —in existence for centuries before the Spanish conquistadores brought and imposed their own— is being lost, along with its variants and cultural legacy. Partly responsible for this are long-standing stratified societies, in addition to government-based efforts to enforce Spanish in the educational system, counterpointed only by very recent and barely efficient efforts to promote bilingual education for Indigenous peoples throughout Mexico.
The raw fact is, too, that the new generations are not interested in speaking Maya —even refuse to do so— because it is deemed as shameful, backward, related to low levels of education and poverty. Access to technology also creates pressure to speak Spanish over Maya. This means that contemporary writers are, in fact, struggling for the survival of their language and its core cultural values.
In this sense, they are valuable cultural gatekeepers and mediators of their centuries-old territory and traditions, since even the best-intentioned tourism can backlash when the Maya are portrayed as exotic, instead of what they are: dignified descendants of the highly sophisticated and culturally advanced ancient Maya civilization. Moreover, the recent —and reckless— introduction of the so-called Maya Train, intended to boost the economy and tourism, is bringing in a wide spectrum of detrimental repercussions; as is the current expanding presence of U.S., Canadian and European ex-pats, arriving in post-pandemic waves, to inhabit “more affordable” living places, all of which is reframing by the day the very role of the Maya and mixed-blood people, their culture and their language within their own ages-old territory.
As their roots become severely challenged, contemporary Maya writers and poets play a major role in these times. It is worth noting they are not only writers and accomplished poets, but also fully bilingual translators, as well as their own copyeditors: a single mistaken accent or non-double vowel could change the meaning entirely.
Of the poets represented here, Pedro Uc Be, A. Sasil Sánchez Chan and María Elisa Chavarrea Chim, are from Yucatán and speak Yucatecan Maya or maayat’aan; Ruperta Bautista is from Chiapas and speaks Tsotsil. All four poets have different agendas and styles, and all of them are well-known outside and within their communities, around which is focused much of their educational-oriented work in their language. They have all been published, are often accessible on the Internet, and have earned a variety of national awards, as well as international recognition. Interestingly, the boom of women Indigenous poets in the past seventeen years or so has also had its say in the shaping of Indigenous as well as non-Indigenous literary spheres.
Copyright © 2024 by Claire Joysmith.
About the Editor / Translator
Claire Joysmith, born in Mexico of immigrant parents, writes bilingually, has taught Literature in Spanish and English, as well as translation, transborder culture and creative writing. Fascinated by cultural, social and linguistic interplay, she writes poetry and narrative, in addition to engaging in translation. Her poetry has been translated into English, Spanish, Maya, Italian and Turkish. She is editor/translator of Cantar de espejos, an anthology of Chicana women poets, among others. She lives in Yucatán, her chosen home.
Philip Enticknap
Chac-Mool Statue, Playa Chac-Mool, Mexico
© Philip Enticknap.
Ruperta Bautista
Ruperta Bautista writes in her native language, Maya Tsotsil, spoken in Chiapas, southeastern Mexico, very different from the Yucatecan Maya spoken by the other three poets included.
Jyakubeletik
Jts’uj cha’ts’uj sjik’ batel lekilal ti k’ak’ale
x-ik’ub, smaj sba, te xvalk’uj sutp’ij ta sba toketik.
Xpujlajetxa ti vo’betike xchi’uk smaj no’ox sbaik stse’ej ti o’e
ti vinajele x-ak’otaj no’ox skuyoj sba.
Tsatsal pukujil chonetik syajesbeik
spat xokon ti koltaele
jaylichan no’ox sbakel ye svesk’unbeik
sbik’tal kevalil ti koltaele.
Ti sakil sjol osile xchi’uk ti voch voch o’ntonale
chalik bu oy nak’al ti chopolale
j-ech’el no’ox chak’bik yip ti lekilale.
Bol bek’ satiletik slajesik ti lekil abtelale
ta epal ch’ich’etik xcha’vok’talel ti vokolile
lek no’ox cha’i xchanik chopol lajelal ti ololetike
koltabilik yu’un ti pak’taj k’ope.
Ti jkuch lajelale, te spek’an pek’an komel ch’ich’etik
sts’ites komel utel ilbajinel
ts’ikem to yu’un ti yip lekil o’ntonale, koltabil ta ch’ul ik’.
Embriagados
El sol suspira gotas de esperanza
y mancha, golpea, revolotea en las nubes.
Suenan los tambores, chocan las risas del agua,
el cielo baila con disfraz alegre.
Fieras prepotentes hieren
la blanca espalda de la libertad;
filosos colmillos desgarran
la pequeña luz de la lámpara pacífica.
Las canas del tiempo y los latidos de la razón
hablan de grandes lunares ocultos
construyendo una sola esperanza.
Ojos estúpidos trituran la marcha,
reencarna la injusticia en rojas olas;
aplausos de niños dibujan pasos negros
ayudados con la falsedad.
La carreta de olor putrefacto deja huellas de sangre,
salpica el veneno de palabras humillantes,
la dignidad resiste con la permanencia del viento.
Inebriated
The sun sighs droplets of hope
and stains, strikes, flits amid the clouds.
There’s a beating of drums, a collision of water laughter,
the sky dances wearing a merry guise.
Arrogant wild beasts wound
the pure-white back of freedom;
sharp fangs tear at
the tiny light of a pacific lamp.
The gray hair of time and the heartbeats of reason
speak of large hidden birthmarks, indelible,
building a single hope.
Stupid eyes crush the marches,
injustice reincarnates in red waves;
the clapping of children sketches dark footsteps
assisted by falsehood.
The rotten-smelling cart leaves traces of blood,
spatters the poison of demeaning words,
dignity resists with the persistence of the wind.
—*—
K’alal ta lajele
K’alal slikeb balamile: ti jik’ o’ntonale
xchi’inoj ti xambal sk’ejimol
ti j-al mantal mutetike
ti patil chk’ataj ti jakil o’ntonal.
Yo’nton smala ti ch’ul balamile
ti slajebal batel kuxlejale,
xp’ajxa yu stsajal ya’lel sat
yu’un ti lajelale makalxa yu sat yelov.
Xpuk no’ox ti anil ti k’ak’al o’ntonale,
spajesbe xch’iel ti kuxlejale.
Xp’ol no’ox ti anil ti toyombaile,
stijbe no’ox sbolil sjol ti tsalombaile,
stup’be no’ox batel snopel sjol yo’ntonik ti viniketike,
a’ kuxul xkom ti chopolile.
A la muerte
En el principio los suspiros
vagan con el canto
de pájaros mensajeros
y en desesperación se convierten.
El corazón de la madre aguarda
la despedida de la existencia,
de sus ojos brotan lágrimas rojas
pintando su rostro color de muerte.
Corre de prisa el odio,
detiene los latidos de la vida.
La ambición estalla,
enciende su veneno de competencia,
arrasa a la moribunda ideología,
fuego sedoso permanece.
To Death
In the beginning the sighs
wander with the singing
of messenger birds,
and transmute into despair.
The mother's heart awaits
the farewell of existence;
red tears flow from her eyes
painting her face the color of death.
Hatred runs amok,
halts the heartbeats of life.
Ambition explodes,
ignites its poison of competition,
demolishes the dying ideology:
silken fire remains.
Ma’uk ech sjam
Jtos no’ox spas yabtelik ti bol j-ilbajinvanejetike
totil pukuj jnuts tak’inetik xpamuk’tavanik
ta yunenal jun ak’ubal
xch’am ik’tabe no’ox smuil ti lekilale.
Snak’ sba ti tsatsal jk’uleje
ti lekil chapanele chich’ batel ti anil,
a’ stunes k’alal xtun yu’un xai’e
j-ak’vanej ta me’nal.
K’alal ta stoylejal slo’lavanej na
stubta yalel tal epal mil bail
te ta yalbale,
xvochet no’ox ti me’nal lajelale.
Totil j-ilbajinvanejetik slajesik ti kuxlejale
xulesik ti k’usitik lek jutebe,
ta jcha’ ilbetik svokol ti ch’ul osil balamile.
Realidad innecesaria
Inepta desmesurada actitud monótona
apóstoles del dinero vigilan
en una noche fresca,
olfatean inocencia perfumada.
El poderoso se esconde,
lleva en su bolsillo la injusticia,
utiliza monumentos a la necesidad,
provoca el hambre.
Desde su castillo de trampa
escupe espuma de enfrentamientos;
y, bajo su torre,
brama un río de plegarias.
Los violadores de la libertad
fusilan huellas apenas visibles,
la herida del tiempo se repite.
—*—
Unnecessary reality
Inept, immoderate attitude, now monotonous:
the apostles of money are watchful
on a cool night,
sniffing perfumed innocence.
The powerful hide,
carry injustice in their pockets,
make use of monuments to necessity,
provoke hunger.
From their castle of treachery
they spit foam of confrontation
and beneath their tower
roars a river of pleas.
The rapists of freedom
fire at barely visible imprints;
the wound of time repeats itself.
About the Author
Ruperta Bautista, born in Chiapas, is a Maya Tsotsil educator, writer, anthropologist, translator, actress, and the author of poetry, essays, narrative and theatre scripts. She recently won the Premio de Literaturas Indígenas de América 2024. She has published in Mexico, Ecuador, the United States, Italy, Canada, France, Spain, Sweden and Scotland. Some of her writings have been translated into English, French, Italian, Catalan, Portuguese and Swedish.
Miguel Angel Marin
Ixchel, Great Mayan Goddess in Isla Mujeres, Mexico
© by Miguel Angel Marin.
Pedro Uc Be
These poems are from the self-published online Yucatecan Maya and Spanish bilingual poetry book U Kibilo’ob Mooy / Velas del recinto (which would translate into English as Candles from the Sacred Place).
Péepen
Ch’úuyul ku beetik a síijil
tu k’ab junkúul xk’anlool,
tu ye’esame’enil ke’elil,
tu sáastalil noj kuxtalil.
Wáak’al ku beetik u boonolil a xiik’
beey u chéelil u ka’anil lak’iine’,
beey u yéebil u pa’ikuba chuunka’ane’,
beey u neetsil u xiik’ a xki’ichpan na’e’.
Líik’il ku beetik u toojil a wóol
tu yáam u k’i’ixilo’ob yaj óolal,
tu yáam u kootilo’ob kéex óolil
tu yáam u makk’áaxilo’ob su’tsil.
Je’epajal ku beetik u na’at a xiik’
ti’al u tojtáantik u beel Yuum cháak,
ti’al u kaxtik u niik u nalil che’kool,
ti’al u tep’ik u yajkunaj u kaajal.
Teche’ jo’lajump’éel u k’iinilo’ob a che’ej
teche’ jo’lajump’éel u winálilo’ob a xik’nal
teche’ jo’lajump’éel u ja’abil a wíinik k’áak’il
teche’ óxp’éel u k’óobenil a noj maya k’áak’.
Mariposa
Se injerta tu nacimiento
de los brazos de la flor amarilla,
del atardecer del invierno,
de la madrugada de la plenitud.
Se germinan los colores de tus alas
como el arcoíris del horizonte,
como el rocío que baña la naciente luz,
como las sensibles alas de tu madre.
Se levanta con pujanza tu ánimo
en medio de las espinas del dolor,
en medio de los escombros de la indiferencia,
en medio de los baluartes de la vergüenza.
Se abre la sabiduría de tus alas
para hacer el camino a la lluvia,
para buscar el polen de la milpa,
para vendar la congoja de tu pueblo.
Tu carga ha sido quince días de sonrisas,
tu carga ha sido quince meses de vuelo,
tu carga ha sido quince años de fuego sazonado,
tu carga ha sido las tres piedras del fogón maya.
Butterfly
Your birth is grafted
from the arms of the yellow flower,
from the dusk of winter,
from the dawn of abundance.
The colors of your wings sprout
like the rainbow on the horizon,
like the dew that bathes the emerging light,
like the sensitive wings of your mother.
Your spirit with vigor rises
amid the thorns of pain,
amid the rubble of indifference,
amid the bastions of shame.
The wisdom of your wings opens
to make way for the rain,
to seek the pollen of the milpa,*
to bandage the grief of your people.
Your burden has been fifteen days of smiles,
your burden has been fifteen months of flight,
your burden has been fifteen years of seasoned fire,
your burden has been the three stones of the Maya hearth.**
Note:
*Living cornfield.
**Traditionally, the Maya hearth (where the life-giving fire is preserved) is composed of three stones that represent the union of the three planes of existence: heaven, earth and the underworld.
—*—
Xkóokay
J Ma’ leti’e áak’aab beetiko’,
ma’ leti’e éek’joch’e’enilo’,
ma’ leti’e náachilo’,
jump’éel suup’tupik a sáasil.
Ta sutaba t’aanil
ti’al a xik’nal beey u juum t’aan
ku yokol je’el tu’ux beey utsil péektsile’,
ba’ale’ núup’táanta’abech.
Ka síit’tik u kootil noj kaajo’ob
ti’al u lanchajal a xíimbal
beey u jtsuub juntúul chan xch’úupale’,
ba’ale’ ta jats’aba yéetel jya’ax nook’.
Ma’ uts ta wich le xchimesk’áak’o’obo’,
tumen mina’an je’elbix a xiik’o’ob
jolik u beel le áak’ab kool
ku chíikbesik u bo’oy tu neek’ a wicho’.
Luciérnaga
No es la noche,
no es la oscuridad,
no es la distancia,
es un retén que apaga tu luz.
Te hiciste palabra
para volar como una voz
que penetra como noticia,
pero te han encapsulado.
Saltas fronteras políticas
para caminar largas horas
como linterna de niña migrante,
pero has topado con un verde olivo.
No te gustan los trenes,
prefieres usar alas transparentes
que surcan la nocturna milpa,
que la luna copia en tus ojos.
Firefly
It's not the night,
it's not the darkness,
it's not the distance:
it's the security checkpoint that switches off your light.
You became the word
to soar as a voice
that permeates like news:
but you have been encapsulated.
You cross political borders
to walk long hours
like a migrant girl’s flashlight:
but you’ve stumbled upon one clad in olive green.*
You don't like trains,**
you prefer to don transparent wings
that fly at night over the milpa***
that the moon mirrors in your eyes.
Notes:
* Color worn by Mexican soldiers in uniform.
** Tren Maya or Maya Train.
*** Living cornfield.
—*—
K’áak’náab
Jayakbalech beey u ch’oojil teep’
pixmil ti’ k’áan u k’ajlaaye’,
u yich xiib yéetel x ch’up kóoyta’an teech,
ku kaxtiko’ob bej ta woot’el
ti’al u chukiko’ob kay yéetel boono’ob,
yaan k’iin ku nu’ukpajalo’ob ta púuj yéetel u taak’in kay
le ken a je’elsaba beey u je’elel puksi’ik’ale’.
Je’ek’abech beey u wáalal áanalte’e’,
ti’ ka molik u juum u k’aay iik’i’,
beey ta jo’ok’silak u tsikbalil Xkusamil,
le petlu’um ta wolaj ti’al u kutal X Ch’eelo’,
tu kuxa’anil a woochelo’ob yaan u k’áanil a chuuk
tu’ux ka páaytik u aj chuukil kuxtalil
yéetel u niik u j k’áak’náabilo’ob bisik u iits’atil lu’umo’obo’.
Yuumtsilech beey u puksi’ik’al nojoch wíinike’,
sáansamal a síijsisk ti’ k’iin u alabóolal máak,
ka’ beetik u yi’ijankil uj bey junkúul nale’,
ka tupik le noj k’áak’ ku júutulo’,
ka báaxal sáansamal áak’ab yéetel eek’
óoli beey táan a chukpachtik xkóokaye’,
le ku jojopaankil beey u pool u yiim maya ko’olelo’.
Mar
Eres como sábana azul
que guarda en la hamaca la memoria,
hombres y mujeres te ofrecen sus ojos,
buscan en tu piel caminos para hallar peces y colores;
a veces encuentran tesoros alados en tu regazo,
cuando palpitas como un sosegado corazón.
Eres como libro abierto,
en cada página registras la voz del viento,
cuentas la historia de Xkusaamil,
la isla que creaste para Ix Ch’eel,
en tus imágenes vivas están las redes
con que atrapas al pescador de la vida
y al polinizador mercante que lleva el arte a otra tierra.
Eres como Yuumtsil para el corazón maya,
naces cada día la esperanza con el sol,
espiga en ti la luna como una planta de maíz,
apagas los amenazantes fuegos que caen,
juegas cada noche con las estrellas
como si atraparas luciérnagas,
esas que lleva en el pecho la mujer maya.
Sea
You are like a blue sheet
that folds its memory into the hammock,
men and women offer you their eyes,
seek paths across your skin to find colors and fish,
discovering, at times, winged treasures in your womb,
when you beat as a serene heart.
You are like an open book,
you record the wind’s voice on each page,
you tell the story of Xkusaamil,
the island you created for Ix Ch'eel;*
in your living images are the nets
that catch the fishermen of life
and the mercantile pollinators bearing art to other lands.
You are like a Yuumtsil** for the Maya heart,
you give birth to hope daily, as does the sun,
from you the moon shoots into growth, like a corn plant,
you extinguish the threatening fires that fall,
you play every night with the stars,
as if you were catching the fireflies
that Maya women wear on their breasts.
Notes:
*Also known as Ixchel, the Maya goddess of the Moon, of fertility, labor, birthing and waist-loom weavers; she is often depicted as a water-bearer. The rainbow is among her many attributes.
** Yuumtsil: god.
—*—
Kibo’ob
Jóopenjóop u kibilo’ob janal piixan
Jóopenjóop u chak kibil lak’in
jóopenjóop u box kibil chik’iin
jóopenjóop u sak kibil xaman
jóopenjóop u k’an kibil nojol.
Tu kanti’itsil yóok’olkaab ku jojopaankilo’ob,
káapenkáap yanilo’ob tu kanti’itsil mayakche’
tíinentíin u k’áak’ilo’ob ich ek’joch’e’enil
je’elilje’el u taal u yíibilo’ob táan iik’
chíinenchíin u yicho’ob ich xpu’ujuk
péekenpéek u yicho’ob ti’ yo’och píibo’ob
che’ejilche’ej u ki’imakil u yóolo’ob t iknal.
Velas
Arden las velas del janal piixan,*
arden las rojas del oriente
arden las negras del poniente
arden las blancas del norte
arden las amarillas del sur.
Arden en las cuatro esquinas del mundo,
lucen en las cuatro esquinas de la mesa
despuntan su fuego en la oscuridad
funden lentamente su vigor en el aire
esconden su rostro entre xpu’ujuk**
desparraman sus ojos sobre su píib***
sonríen con alegría a nuestro lado.
Candles
The candles for the janal piixan* burn
the red ones for the east burn
the black ones for the west burn
the white ones for the north burn
the yellow ones for the south burn.
They burn at the four corners of the world
they shine at the four corners of the table
they shoot their fire into the darkness
they slowly melt their upright strength in the air
they hide their faces among the xpu'ujuk**
they spread their eyes over their píib***
they smile with joy at our side.
Notes:
*janal piixan: Early November celebration in Yucatán honoring the dead.
**xpu'ujuk: Orange flower known as the “flower of the dead”; marigold.
***píib: Earth oven used in Yucatán.
About the Author
Pedro R. Uc Be is Maya, a teacher and a creator of narrative and poetry in his mother tongue. His work depicts Maya life and experiences, some of which has been published in several magazines, newspapers, anthologies and on his website. He has received a number of awards in response to his Maya poetry and narrative. As a member of the Asamblea de Defensores del Territorio Maya Múuch’ Xíimbal (Assembly of Defenders of the Maya Territory Múuch’ Xíimbal) he treads –as befits a younger son– the same paths as those Maya communities that protect their territory from developmental plunder in the Yucatán Peninsula.
Ulita
Mayan Fruit Market in Oxcutzcaba, Yucatan, Mexico
© by Ulita.
María Elisa Chavarrea Chim
(Poems taken from the bilingual Yucatecan Maya and Spanish poetry book U súutukil xik’ nal/Tiempo de volar – or Time to Fly.)
K’aay Tial Kool
Kool,
kin payalt’antik
ki’ichkelem Yum k’iin
ti’al u baaytikech,
ti’al ma’ u tóokikech.
Kin payalt’antik
ki’ichpan xma’ uj
ti’al u sáasilkuntik a bej
ti’al u tóop’sik neek’o’ob.
Kin payalt’antik,
Yuum Iik’o’ob
ti’al u ye’esik ba’ax bejil u binsik,
ti’al u beetik u lliik’il múuyal,
ti’al u beetik u k’áaxal cháak
Ti’al ki’ ixi’im.
Kin payalt’antik
noolo’ob
Ti’al u k’ayikecho’ob
ti’al u náaysik a wóol,
Ti’al u ka’ambesik
ti’ u paalal,
ti’ u yáabilo’ob
ti’al u bin u yaabiltkecho’ob.
Kin payalt’antik
Yuum K’iin, x ma’ uj, iik’ nool,
Ti’al ma’ u cha’a’ko’ob a ch’íijil
Ti’al ma’ u cha’iko’ob u muts’ik a wich’ob.
Ko’otene’ex,
kuxkinte’ex kool, K’iin, X ma’ Uj, iik’ noolo’ob,
ko’otene’ex,
kuxkinte’ex k kuxtal.
Canto a la Milpa
Milpa,
invoco
al señor sol
que te acaricie,
que no te calcine.
Invoco
a la hermosa madre luna
ilumine tu camino
para que haga brotar las semillas.
Invoco,
a los señores del viento,
para que guíen el camino que debemos llevar,
para que las nubes se eleven,
por las plegarias
y hagan caer la lluvia para la santa gracia.
Invoco,
a los abuelos,
que te canten,
apacigüen tu espíritu,
que enseñen
a sus descendientes,
a sus nietos,
a respetarte.
Imploro
al Señor Sol, a la Señora Luna, a los vientos,
a la esencia de los abuelos,
no permitan que envejezcas,
no te permitan que entres en el sueño profundo.
Vengan todos,
revivan la milpa, Señor Sol, Señora Luna, Señores
del viento, abuelos,
vengan todos
revivan la vida.
Song for the Milpa*
Milpa:
I invoke
the Lord Sun
to caress you,
to spare charring you.
I invoke
the beautiful mother moon
to light your path
to make the seeds sprout.
I invoke
the lords of the wind
to guide the path we must take,
so that clouds may rise,
through prayers,
and make the rain fall for the sake of our holy grace.
I invoke
the elders,
to sing to you,
to soothe your spirit,
to teach
their descendants,
their grandchildren,
to honor you.
I beseech
the Lord Sun, the Lady Moon, the winds,
the essence of the elders,
that they not allow you to grow old,
that they not allow you to enter deep sleep.
Come, all of you,
to revive the milpa, Lord Sun, Lady Moon,
Lords of the wind, elders,
come, each one of you,
to rekindle life.
Note:
*Living cornfield.
+++++++
K’ajlay
U k’ajlayil in kaajale’
ti yaan tu lu’umkabile’
ti yaan tu wíinikilo’obe’
ti’ yaan ti’ u ko’olelilo’obe’
ti yaan ti’ u aj k’iinilo’obe’
sáansamal u beetpajal u k’ajlayil,
in kaajal
yéetel u k’aay ch’íich’
yéetel u yok’ol chaambal
yéetel u wi’ijil jmaaya kolnáal
yéetel u meyaj ko’olel
u k’ajlayil in kaajale’
to’on chuyik.
Historia
La historia de mi pueblo
está en su tierra,
está en su gente,
en sus mujeres,
en sus tiempos,
todos los días construye
su historia mi pueblo,
con el canto de los pájaros,
con el llanto de los niños,
con el hambre del campesino,
con el trabajo de sus mujeres,
la historia de mi pueblo
nosotros la bordamos.
History
The history of my people
is in their land,
in its people,
in its women,
in its own times,
every day my people
build their history,
with the song of the birds,
with the crying of the children,
with the hunger of the campesino,*
with the work of its women;
the history of my people
is one we embroider.
Note:
*Fieldworker.
++++
U Néen Eek’o’ob
Teech ka’anal anikech,
ki’ichpam Ixchel,
teech u yuumil ka’an,
teech u yuumil eek’o’ob,
teech u yuumil u sáastal,
teech u yuumil u taal u sáastal,
u p’uja’il sáastal,
U máan k’iino’ob.
u tsóol k’iinil k’iino’ob,
u máan Xma Uj,
u máan k’iino’ob,
u ye’esik Xma Uj no’oja’an bej,
u ye’esik no’oja’an bej ti’
meeyjilo’ob teech u yuumil ka’anal.
Espejo de Estrellas
Tú estás en la cúspide,
hermosa Ixchel*,
tú, dueña del firmamento,
tú, dueña de las estrellas,
tu eres dueña del amanecer,
tu eres dueña del alba,
del rocío de la mañana.
El paso de los días,
el contar de los días del sol,
el paso de la madre luna,
el paso de los días,
nos enseñas Señora Luna
el camino correcto,
enseñas el camino a tu gente
que tú eres dueña del cielo.
*Ixchel: Diosa de la Luna y protectora del parto
Mirror of Stars
You reside way up above,
beautiful Ixchel,*
you, ruler of the skies,
you, ruler of the stars,
you are the ruler of the dawn,
you are the ruler of the inception of the day,
of the morning dew.
The unfolding of the days,
the count of the days the sun brings,
the passage of mother moon,
the unfolding of the days:
you teach us, Lady Moon,
the right path,
you show your people the right way,
that you are the ruler of the heavens.
*Ixchel: Moon Goddess and protector of childbirth.
About the Author
María Elisa Chavarrea Chim, born in Chumayel, Yucatán, is an anthropologist, with a B.A in Creative Writing, a poet, writer, as well as a Rural Development and Yucatecan Maya language teacher. She has published several poetry books and has earned an International poetry prize. A founding member of the Maya Women Writers Collective Xkusmo’ob,
she has collaborated in Writing the land. Writing Humanity. The Maya Literary Renaissance, and in magazines such as Yucatan Today.
A. Sasil Sánchez Chan
Xok Chuuy
Juntúul Ko’olel ku julik tu púuts’ chak ts’íits’íbo’ob,
ts’o’oke’ ku chuyi k’aayo’ob ti’al u weensik u paalal.
Yéetel u sak k’áanile’ ku wojik múuyalo’ob
ti’al u xmukul chupik yéetel u ja’il u yich,
ku ts’o’okole’ ku t’ojik tu ka’anan icho’ob.
Te’e na’aliko’, tu chan xuulil u k’a’ajesaje’,
ku yáakam u xaakil u chuuy;
chéen tuupul oochelo’ob yaani’,
chéen xma’ top’ol tuukulo’ob p’áati’,
ma’ yanchaj u nikte’ilo’obi’, mix u t’aanilo’obi’.
Sak nook’ ti’al u chuuye’ u k’áak’náabil u tso’otsel u pool
Ku yáalkab tak tu bejilo’ob u yoot’el. Ko’olele’ ku xokchuuy
yéetel jump’éel púuts’ p’isik u máan k’iin;
xts’íibe’ ku chuyik tuukulo’ob,
yéetel u k’áanilo’ob sayab lu’um,
ku bin u kóolik jujump’éelil tu ts’u’ u puksi’ik’al.
Hilo contado
Una mujer enhebra en su aguja pájaros rojos,
y les borda cantos para arrullar a sus hijos.
Con hilos de plata dibuja nubes
donde guarda lágrimas en silencio
y los vierte en sus párpados cansados.
Al fondo, por el borde de su memoria,
su canasta de hilos agoniza;
ya solo guarda siluetas umbrías
de ideas que no germinaron,
ni en flores ni en palabras.
La tela blanca nace del océano de sus cabellos
y desemboca en los ríos de su piel. La mujer hace hilo contado
con una aguja que marca el tiempo;
es la escribana que hilvana historias
con hilos de tierra fértil,
que desenrolla uno a uno del corazón.
Hilo contado*
A woman threads red birds through her needle,
embroidering them into song, lullabies for her children.
With silver threads she draws clouds
where she stores silent tears,
pouring them into her tired eyelids.
In the background, at the rim of her memory,
agonizes her basket of threads;
it now holds only shadowy shapes
of ideas that never blossomed
into flowers, or into words.
The white fabric grows out from the ocean of her hair
and flows into the rivers of her skin.
The woman works creating hilo contado
with a needle that keeps time;
she is the scribe who strings together stories
with threads of fertile soil
which she unravels, one by one, from the heart.
Note:
*A counted-thread embroidery technique typical of the Yucatán peninsula; there is also a play on words, since “contado” is also a “recounted” or “told” story.
—*—
K’áak’
In na’e’ tu kanaj u yust u ch’ala’atel iik’
tia’al u jóopsik u k’áak’il u k’óoben;
tu táan u xaamache’,
ku tak’ankúunsik u túumben waajil tia’al u yets’kúunsik.
Ku tsikbaltike’ tia’al u jóopsa’al k’áake’,
yaan ka’ach u pu’ulul u ch’ilibil saajkil
yéetel u si’il chi’ichnakil,
beyxan u baakel úuchben yaj óolalo’ob.
Tia’al u tóokpajalo’ob yéetel u buuts’alo’ob.
In na’e’ u yojel k’áak’e’
ku yeelel yéetel ku tóok, ku jóopol,
ka’ache’ ksajaktal ti’ u muuk’il,
ba’ale’ walkila’ táan kkaník któoch’bal yéetel.
Fuego
Mamá aprendió a soplarle a las costillas del viento
para encender su fogón;
sobre su comal,
cocía tortillas nuevas para ofrendar.
Cuenta que, para prender el fuego,
había que tirarle las ramillas del miedo,
ponerle leña del desasosiego,
y los huesos de las tristezas,
hasta quemarlas y convertirlas en humo.
Mamá sabe que el fuego
arde, quema y se extiende;
antes le temíamos,
pero ahora, nos volvemos llamas con él.
Fire
Mother learned to blow into the ribs of the wind
to get the hearth-fire started;
on her comal
she’d cook new tortillas as offerings.
She’d tell us that, to light the fire,
you must throw in twigs of fear,
adding firewood of disquiet,
and the bones of sorrows,
until they burned, turning into smoke.
Mother knows that fire
blazes, burns and spreads;
before, we used to fear it,
but now we become flames with it.
—*—
In chiich
In chiiche’ junkúul x Nuk ya’axche’ u xit’maj u k’ab
tia’al u méek’ik u paalal.
U kopmaj u bóoch’ tu bin u xíimbal,
le ken u jáalk’abte’ ku cha’ak u xik’nal u sujuyil ti’ iik’,
Tu síijil túumben k’iine’,
chika’an u yoochel juntúul x ki’ichpam xunáan
kulukbal k’aay yáanal u bo’oyil.
¡Ay! in chiich,
ta k’abo’ob kuxa’an xa’aybejilo’ob ts’o’ok a xíimbaltik,
tu sakil a pool chika’an tuláakal i’inajo’ob ta sijsaj,
le yanchaj ui yicho’obo’.
¡Ay! in chiich,
kíilbanak a t’aano’ob tin kuxtal,
léembanak a sáasil tu táan u yich k’iin
¡Ay! in chiich,
Oje’elan, ma’ chéen ko’olelechi’
láayli’ Xnuk Ya’axche’ech ka p’atik a ch’i’ibal tu’ux ku mu’uk’anchajal a moots.
Mi abuela
Mi abuela es una gran ceiba de brazos extendidos
con los que envuelve a todos sus hijos.
Con el rebozo enrollado, camina,
y al soltarlo, vuela en el aire su pureza.
Amaneciendo,
se ve la imagen de una hermosa mujer
cantando bajo su sombra.
¡Ay! mi abuela,
en tus manos viven los caminos recorridos,
y en el blanco de tus cabellos las semillas sembradas,
que un día florecieron.
¡Ay! mi abuela,
retumben tus palabras en mi vida,
brille tu luz a los ojos del sol.
¡Ay! mi abuela,
hoy sabemos que no fuiste sólo mujer,
aún eres la gran ceiba que deja su estirpe en donde se fortalece su raíz.
My grandma
My grandma is a grand ceiba tree with outstretched arms
into which she enfolds all of her children.
She walks wrapped in her rebozo
and, as she unfolds it, her purity flies into the air.
At break of dawn,
you see the image of a beautiful woman
singing under the shadow of the tree.
Ay, grandma,
in your hands every road traveled remains alive,
and in the whiteness of your hair live the planted seeds
that, once upon a time, were blossoms.
Ay, grandma,
may your words resonate in my life,
may your light shine in the eyes of the sun.
Ay, grandma,
today we know you were not only a woman,
you are the grand ceiba tree, lineage stored in roots that grow strong.
About the Author
A. Sasil Sánchez Chan, born in Xaya, Tekax, Yucatan, is a native speaker of Maya (or maayat’aan, i.e. one who speaks Maya in Yucatán). She obtained a BA in Maya Language Creative Writing at the Centro Estatal de Bellas Artes in Mérida, Yucatan. Her work, published in various literary magazines, has been awarded several poetry prizes. A promoter for children’s reading and writing skills in Maya communities in Yucatan, she is editor of K’iintsil, the Maya section of La Jornada newspaper, and instructor for Rising Voices’s Digital Activism in Maya Languages Scholarship Program.
Paul Dkystra
Palenque Ruins. The Mayan Ruins at Palenque, Mexico
© by Paul Dkystra.