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CORN WOMAN’S WARNING
My world has changed again,
that hungry world echoing with voices
begging for the bounty
I can provide.
A thousand varieties of ears were created
by the hands of the People,
but now there has come a Stranger People
who alter my genetic being,
turn my green fields into poison for insects
and other plants.
I have lost the scent of wild anise,
lost the great zebra caterpillar that fed on its leaves,
the magnificent butterfly he became.
My rich harvests ride across the fertile land in containers
that slide over cold iron rails
or enclosed in the holds of growling machines
that sing
as they wheel down dull grey roads –
harvests so great I lose my worth as human sustenance,
while across those seas I have travelled
as Corn Woman, Corn Mother,
my People cry out for food.
Now Stranger People seize my grains,
ignoring the cries
of my People, their purpose to change my essence
into energy to drive their great chariots
their motor-driven beasts—
while my People starve.
Little Sister Sorghum, grain for the cattle,
useless as human food,
grows as easily as I, and is willing
to turn herself into this fuel the Stranger People
call “biodiesel,” but she is ignored
while they rape my harvests.
I shall join with my Brothers and Sisters of the Earth,
that we may seek justice against these Stranger People
who slight the beauty of our Pachamama,
Mother World, Mother Earth,
who refuse to understand the truth
that is Corn Woman, Corn Mother.
The Streets of My Soul
There are streets in the world
I know with my feet
And streets in the world
I know only with my eyes.
I recall the steep white streets
of the blues of Santorini,
the aged cobblestones, feathered with pigeons,
of Istanbul.
I have paused before the modest grave of Ezra Pound
on the island cemetery outside Venice,
gazed on Neruda’s collection of mermaids,
and that incredible ivory horn of the vanished narwhal.
I have looked down from the vertiginous height
of the Pyramid of the Sun
and up at the temple atop a Mayan pyramid Tikal.
I have walked through the colorful streets
of the open-air markets of Montevideo,
and through the sleepy streets of a little town
in Jujuy.
Then, walking through those streets
I have never walked, gazing at the world’s marvels
I have never seen,
I met your soul coming
toward my soul.
I ran to greet you.
We kissed and embraced joyfully
and without words
decided we would walk soul in soul
all, all those streets, all those places
we have yet
to know.
Sue Littleton has been writing for 50 years. Her experiences come from a sheep ranch in West Texas to the sophisticated capital of Argentina,
and from 18 years in Buenos Aires to Austin,Texas.
A college education is a wonderful thing. She graduated at age 57. Her poetry returned to her with intense joy and a range unknown before
the mind-dazzling experiences of undergraduate studies.
Email: Sue Littleton
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