SONG OF THE GOLDEN SCORPION, novel | Alma Luz Villanueva | Blog Post | Red Room

SONG OF THE GOLDEN SCORPION, novel | Alma Luz Villanueva | Blog Post | Red Room

My new novel, 'SONG OF THE GOLDEN SCORPION,' is now available- for more info please go to my publisher's site, here's the link www.wingspress.com/book.cfm?book_ID=163  *It looks like you must paste this address- another way is to go directly to www.wingspress.com and click on Authors, my name....but the link is faster. Also, my new book of poetry, 'GRACIAS,' will also be available in November, same wonderful publisher and site, gracias. 
In the streets of Mexico, where I live, vendors selling delicious ice creams, roasted corn, freshly made tamales, bouquets of yellow squash blossoms- my favorite couple in their 80s leading their burro loaded with rainbows of vegetables/flowers spraying out like a halo- everyone comes singing and shouting their offerings by mi casita- this is me singing and shouting with so much JOY...

**The first two photos are of the wonderful native dancers that arrive from all over Mexico (as well as the ones who live here), taking over the zocalo in San Miguel de Allende. The 3rd is me at Quetzalcoatl's Temple, Teotihuacan, Pyramid of the Sixth Sun. 

"OUR FUNDAMENTAL STATE IS JOY." Buddha

Here's a link to some of my poems and an interview... wishing every one, wherever you are much JOY, in spite of sorrow, the daily bad news...I know there's also the daily good news, and we must witness it all. "Our fundamental state is joy." Buddha http://spaceslitmag.com/2013/03/13/poetry-alma-luz-villanueva
**Also, the photos are mine. 
One more link from my favorite Buddhist teacher, Pema Chodron- she quotes from one of my poems, 'Sassy'...very honored. 
www.mandalapress.com/blog/?tag=alma-luz-villanueva

Dear World,
dear Earth,
dear Ixchel,
                                        March 1, 2013
The taxi driver takes the long 
route, I'm irritated until
I begin to see (again) small
stores with oranges, papaya,

mangoes, bananas, broccoli, avocados,
tomatoes, fresh corn, fresh squash,
fresh strawberries, watermelons
from neighboring fields, some

plowed by horses- everything
tastes like it self, earth
born, not the killing laboratories
where false food becomes

chemicals that stunt our
children's brains, bodies,
spirits, and then medicate
them, they're hyperactive,

autistic, so-called spectrum.
The vendor on the corner, his 
small cart, laughs as he
swiftly slices papaya, mangoes,

watermelon, pineapple, in
containers, lime/chilie on
top, the young woman
roasting her small chickens

(no growth hormones) under
an open flame, she'll spoon
free roasted potatoes, onions,
jalapenos into the plastic bag,

freshly made salsa, a small
store selling handmade
tortillas, freshly roasted
corn into plastic bags,

the vendor on the corner with
her still warm chicken/pork
tamales, hot atole, science 
doesn't intrude on the 

streets here, only a muted
human joy, meeting eyes, greeting
this one, that one, "Buenos dias."
I follow fully feathered

dancers, women, children,
teens, men burning copal, guitars,
full throated singing, drumming
guides the feet, alive

human joy revealed,
feathered dancers turn 
toward newborn Sixth
Sun Spring, a large

man painted entirely blue
sky, lighting bolts appearing,
Thunder Being Kachina-
a tattooed teen hidden in 

fangs, eagle/owl feathers,
kneels both knees, tourists
rush to photograph him-
"He's praying," I say-

"Looks like he's posing to
me," they say- they focus
on his sacred passion,
his Beloved Spring, and when

he suddenly screams, a 
jaguar, they scatter, I
laugh, he continues to dance,
kneel, pray, dance, his Beloved

into being. Into being. 
The children turn on the 
cobbles, little rattles creating
rain, the drummers creating

thunder, the young women,
girls creating beauty, the
tattooed teen dancing passion,
womb of Spring,

praying passion,
womb of Spring,
into being, that we
may live.
        *        *        *        *
Not in the infertile test tubes of
science, but in the endlessly
fertile, wild womb of
Ixchel, our Beloved Spring,

that we may 
live, that our
children live, dear
World, dear

Earth, dear
Ixchel, dear
beloved jaguar
spring.


                                         San Miguel de Allende, Mexico

                                            Alma Luz Villanueva (c)

**The painting, Frida Kahlo, Casa Azul.

RIPENED ROSE

Woke up to a bird
flying out of my
body, a ripened
bird of

joy, water guy
delivering water, flute
player sharpening knives,
warm blue tortillas

soon, joy joy
joy...young man,
immense bucket of
rainbows on his

shoulders, I buy
my share, he smiles,
the woman on the 
corner, warm tamales

wrapped in Madre 
Maiz, Mother Corn,
hot thick chocolate
atole, breakfast,

my granddaughter gave
birth to her first
child, beautiful boy,
my granddaughter a 

healer, may her son be a
healer, as my youngest
son, my granddaughter's
age, a healer, a lover

of Earth, Madre Mar,
Sweet Sky, the families
he heals, his own
family, now

a man, the world-
bring me the daily
sorrows, my own,
the world's- do you

think the rose suddenly
just bursts into bloom,
it begins as a dream
at the very tip of the

thorn, the one that demands
blood- this is how the
rose is born, blooms,

ripened joy. 


To Logan Pauvan Preto, blossomed,
born, his mother's blood, February 18th, 2013.
To my amazing granddaughter,
Ashley Preto. 



Alma Luz Villanueva
San Miguel de Allende, Mexico
(c) All writing copyright on this blog.

FIERY WOMBS

My grandmother, Jesus, full blood
Yaqui, a curandera/healer from
Sonora, who popped the paper
sack with her hand at the 

border crossing, the rude
officer emptying all her carefully
packed luggage, boxes, pregnant with
my mother, crossing legally with her

minister/poet husband to a church in
East Los Angeles, she popped the sack,
shouting, AIRE MEXICANA, I can
see her eagle eyes from my

childhood, defiant to her
molten core, her heart, her
spirit, her fiery womb- I read this,
that women are born with their

ovaries, all their eggs, so a part
of us in our grandmother's, great
grandmother's, great great, their
wombs, their fiery wombs,

in my daughter, my granddaughter,
my great great, yes, grandson,
my sons born from these fiery
ancestor wombs, we are.
        *        *        *        *
Yesterday in line for my FM-3 to 
live in Mexico, I saw the
photo they chose, among the
smiling, friendly ones- I look

like I have indigestion, someone's
trying to fuck with me, someone
won't let me travel the ancient
trade routes, the I-don't-need-no-

stickin-badges-look, not pretty,
believe me, and I start to laugh,
"I look like a damn criminal,"
I say to the customs guy, he protests

that I don't look like a criminal-
"I'm a border crosser, so I
must be," I laugh louder. "Ayyy
senora," he shakes his head. We

Villanueva women, Jesus Villanueva,
cross our borders with Kokopelli's 
ancient flute in our ears, laughing,
shouting, dancing, fiery wombs.


                                        Arizona's SB 1070 give me indigestion,
                                            One people, one planet the next
                                            1,000 years, QUE VIVA....
                                        Alma Luz Villanueva (c)
                                        San Miguel de Allende, Mexico


Jesus y Pablo, wedding day, Sonora, Mexico...

 

my great-grandmother, a well known curandera
in Sonora at that time, refused to name her daughter
the feminine, Jesusa, I love that, her fiery womb.

**All postings/poetry on this blog copyright- 
contact me via the email shown here for 
publication requests, as I've received some,
gracias. This poem will be published in my 
new book, 'GRACIAS,' fall 2013- will post
info toward summer 2013. As well as my novel, 
'SCORPION HUNTER,' The Twins, the same
publishing date. 

Dear World, dear Earth,
dear La Ixchel,
dear Sacred Mockingbird,
                                                           January 2013
You must not kill a 
Sacred Mockingbird
because they sing 
for us sun to moon

to sun, learning up
to 200 songs in their 
life time, they sing
their tiny hearts out

for us till they cease
to fly the wind into
sunlight, moonlight, they
mark our moments, our

days, our dreams,
fresh songs, memorized
pulsing hearts, they
ask for nothing, only

sun, moon, wind, berries,
to fly sun to moon to
sun, learning songs, to
simply live, within our

dreams, our human
memory, their berry
rich songs, up to
200 in a life time.

I wonder, oh I wonder,
what songs, their voices,
each voice, each dream,
each fully lived life,

their 200 songs ripened,
each one had to sing
sun to moon to sun, their
flight cut short, each

one...
Charlotte Bacon, 6 years old
Daniel Borden, 7 years old
Olivia Engel, 6 years old
Josephine Gay, 7 years old
Ana M. Marquez- Greene, 6 years old
Dylan Hockley, 6 years old
Madeline F. Hsu, 6 years old
Catherine V. Hubbard, 6 years old
Chase Howalski, 7 years old
Jesse Lewis, 6 years old
James Mattioli, 6 years old
Grace McDonnell, 7 years old
Emilie Parker, 6 years old
Jack Pinto, 6 years old
Noah Pozner, 6 years old
Caroline Previdi, 6 years old
Jessica Rekos, 6 years old
Avielle Richman, 6  years old
Benjamin Wheeler, 6 years old
Allison N. Wyatt, 6 years old

In the beautiful film, To Kill A
Mockingbird, Scout says, about 
harming another, "It's like killing a
mockingbird, isn't it?"


**To the twenty little birds killed in
Newton, Connecticut, and the parents
who will not hear their so sweet, ripened
songs.

Alma Luz Villanueva 

San Miguel de Allende, Mexico