Mireya Perez Bustillo

Chapelle du Rosaire, Vence

by

To Henri Matisse

by Mireya Perez Bustillo

Where a clarity favors
royal palms over wedding cake buildings
he meditated on light

Here he wanted to draw the light
of the sea, the space, the mimosa
with bits of glass he colored
ripples to dance on white marble
a water moving to the sun
not knowing he could make a solid liquid
wanting only the light

Mireya Perez-Bustillo writes poetry and fiction in Spanish and English. Her poetry appears in MOM’s EGG; Caribbean Review; Americas Review; Dinner with the Muse, IRP Voices, among others. Her novel, Back to El Dorado (Floricanto Press,2020), a Latina coming-of-age story, is available on Barnes and Noble and Amazon sites.

This Hand

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by Mireya Perez Bustillo

In 1588 the Dutch sculptor
Henrick Goltzius drew his right hand
Strong gnarled
With knobbed knuckles
And strong wrist
With the white cuff rolled up
The veins bulging
Today I see my right hand
Delicate weakened
My wrists a narrow cuff
My thumb
Not its normal self
As it knows
It needs to rest
A while
And
Write another way
A week before its surgery

Bubbling

by

by Mireya Perez Bustillo

Like a beetle under a frog’s skin
the paint bubbled larger with the heat
almost ready to burst like when she
held “number one” under her belly was hard like
……………………………………………..a balloon.

Sarita liked to look at the bubble
When Miss Jones started with the questions:
……….What happened to the old woman
……….who lived in a shoe?
……….Why did the cow jump
……….over the moon?
……….What did Jack eat as he
……….sat in his corner?

In the bubble puff Sarita could see
“Rin Rin Renacuajo” “Mirringa Mirronga” and “Pastorcita”*
………And Miss Jones doesn’t even
………know why “Rin Rin” left all
………dressed up and so early, or
………why  “Pastorcita” lost all her sheep
………“Rin Rin” is the best and papi
………taught me it and I know
………it all and say it for the guests.

“Sarita, Sarita, there you go again… “
………And I bet Miss Jones doesn’t
………know you say at the end
………“Colorin, Colorado, este cuento
………se ha acabado” ** And
………She doesn’t even know about the bubbling.

*Characters in nursery stories by Colombian writer, Rafael Pombo
** Traditional way of ending fairy tales and nursery rhymes in Spanish

Cross Dimensions

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by Mireya Perez Bustillo

“Didn’t Our Lady smile
……at the Little Drummer Boy?
Didn’t the Brown Virgin appear
……to the poor Indian Juan?
And in Fatima to the three children?
I knew it would happen
Wasn’t I so good?
Didn’t I collect cents for the
……children of China?
Didn’t I cross myself before eating
……and make restitution for the stolen cookie?
I knew where, too.
Not on the left altar by the statue
……that moved when I stared at it.
That was too easy.
I knew it would be on the Elm
……by the corner of the Church.
To test my readiness
I must do what the saints did
……Mortify my flesh.
Dig my nails into my palms
……and not cry out
So God could see
……I was ready.
I read that the Lord came
……to St. Ignatius
when his legs were wounded
so I bound rubber bands around
……my calves to impress Him more.
‘See God, see, how ready I am.’
Was it a hair on my cheek?
Tossing my hair back, I felt it still
A feathery caress, a rustling
……behind me
A filling of the air
An arc enveloping …
I knew it would happen.”

So Say the Ancient Chibcha

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by Mireya Perez Bustillo

 

Before what was to be was
when all was omnipresent potential
like a fragrance lingering
There was Madre Abuela de Bacatá
She, Abuela to gods who birthed
Chiminigagua, formless, essence of light who yearned to give his light
Needing form he created the large black
flying ones, oily of feather, curving of beak
to slice through nebulousness
to pour forth sun-light
the flying shiny black ones
birds, he called them
were gifted a long-sight precision to guide
beaks full of incandescent breath
very vapor of sun life to sparkle air
to rain multicolor sunrays
breath that birthed us
So say the ancestors.
Others say the ancient shamans were
those first abuelos and abuelas
of the high cold Andes whose skin frosted
who shook shook seeking warmth
A shook so deep it sprouted them
a softness surfacing on their skin
a froth downy on arms, legs, torso
slowly smoothing into sleekness
strong, resilient, shiny, a flutter new
that lifted them in the light air
Plumes of power the elders say
Plumes givers to ancient teachings
Some say.
No, no others say.
It was Madre Bachué, the one who came from
the waters with the child by the hand
She the Knower when she entered the forest
where a sweetness swaying trees held her
wondering if it was the human’s song
She moved to catch the sounds
glints gliding too fast green, red, yellow, turquoise
a splendor not human a polychromed light
only feathered ones sacred to Father Sué
multicolor loros and guacamayos could emit
She knew then their plumes would crown priests, chiefs
their ceremonial mantas,
yellow reflection of Sué most powerful
So they say.

 

Mireya Perez Bustillo: Mireya’s poems invoke a powerful array of spirits. Her poetry appears in Caribbean Review, IRP Voices, Anthology of Colombian Women Poets, among others.

From the Motril Road

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by Mireya Perez Bustillo

 

En medio del camino
they say Boabdil, the young Moorish
King of Granada
his soul darkened turned on the bridge
after he had turned over the keys
to the Alcázar and the Alhambra
on a silken pillow
to the conqueros Isabella and Ferdinand
that second of January in 1492
The Sun’s shadow in him
Boabdil turned turned
one last time
en medio del camino
to see the red splendor of Alhambra
the shimmer of Alcázar
Home to his ancestors for 700 years
a “paradise on earth” the sages said
where orange and jasmine scented patios and courts
where the sun and wind were freely admitted
and water, a visual and musical treat
trickled, bubbled, cascaded
in fountains, gardens and baths
to sparkle bodies and spirits
All turned over to the armored regents
their victory banners fluttering
their fighting horses reined in
their mounted minions waiting
All eyes on him, Boabdil on his black mount
rides slowly to the rocky prominence
before the bridge South
He turns for one last look
trembling, pressure rises in his chest
He turns for one last look
a sigh he can’t control spills
through quivering lips
Ay, Ay de mi Alhambra!

 

Mireya Perez Bustillo: Mireya’s poems invoke a powerful array of spirits. Her poetry appears in Caribbean Review, IRP Voices, Anthology of Colombian Women Poets, among others.

Everything You Need to Know About the 5th Grade

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by Mireya Perez Bustillo

 

She knew that the vision would come on the corner elm tree because
she was so good in
school she heard that Our Lady came to the three children of Fatima
and that St. Ignatius
fell wounded then found the Lord and was saved and that St. Genevieve
saved the city of
Paris from that barbarian Attila and that St. Lucy gave her life for
her faith and they took
her eyes so why couldn’t she have the vision too so she stared at
the tree ’til her eyes
teared and when she entered the church she kissed the ground because
maybe the vision
would come then maybe the statue of Our Lady would come to life so she
always made
sure her shoes were shined and her navy uniform skirt and white blouse
immaculate and
her nails short and clean and her ears washed because she wanted to be
ready for the
vision and in classes at St. Bart’s the white habits of the Dominicans
swished through the aisles fast as the sisters drilled her in grammar,
spelling, and the exercises to focus
on the stories of the saints like the martyrdom of Joan of Arc who was
just 14 and a warrior and savior of her nation maybe that’s why she
wasn’t interested in playing jump rope but would walk around with the
sister on duty so she could catch a glimpse of the elm tree

 

 

Mireya Perez Bustillo: Mireya’s poems invoke a powerful array of spirits. Her poetry appears in Caribbean Review, IRP Voices, Anthology of Colombian Women Poets, among others.

 

When Gabriel came to call

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by  Mireya Perez Bustillo
…………………………………To Max Roach

…………Max the last bebopper

Dizzy, Charlie, Bud all those cats gone on

Dizzy had warned you to stay put
if that heavenly trumpeter Gabriel
wanted you for his band
digging the ringing tone of a “ride” cymbal
to keep the basic beat
using the bass drum for accents

In spite of eulogies, musical tributes,
videos, photographs of you in that
church where Martin had spoken for peace
all said you were gone
I even saw your body carried out
the tape playing you for the recessional

I did not believe it
until
I walked up front to the altar rail
and to the left faced your black stool
the drumsticks on top, the stilled cymbals
on a black-draped pedestal
and heard your hands a prayer echoing
Gabriel’s beckoning
trumpet

 

Mireya Perez Bustillo: Mireya’s poems invoke a powerful array of spirits. Her poetry appears in Caribbean Review, IRP Voices, Anthology of Colombian Women Poets, among others.

When the meteorite fell

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by Mireya Perez Bustillo

The lonely mountain birthed the clear laguna
whose icy depths housed the dragon god
who let the Muiscas know his warm desire
moving them to dazzle the Andean peaks
firing tunjos de oro
the glittering dust of El Dorado

 

Mireya Perez Bustillo: Mireya’s poems invoke a powerful array of spirits. Her poetry appears in Caribbean Review, IRP Voices, Anthology of Colombian Women Poets, among others.