Collection of Aída Elena Párraga's Poetry

 

Women 

I have seen a woman born of water

with the womb loaded with promises,

with the world frolicking on her back.

I have seen her eyes that imagine

a fruit falling from her body

rolling on pathways and roads,

growing with roots entrenched in her chest.

I felt on my skin the smile and the omen,

the sweet tear in the explosion of the universe,

the hopes of the wings that hatch

learning to fly in her dreams.

I've seen a woman

illuminating the world with her womb

the only light that guides her

the only grip in her present...

Strange is to make earth happiness

and from a satellite love one's crescent.

I have seen a woman born of water

with the world widening her navel,

like sweet pomegranate that ripens,

preparing their meat for sacrifice.

Metamorphosis

There are days when I wake up
converted into water:
Completely wet,
bottomless
inhabited by lights,
touching everything.
Days when I feel like the ocean
dancing to the rhythm of the universe,
making me swirl,
raising and lowering my tides...
Then I crave your hands,
infinite blue bowls,
as the only container
able to contain me...

Aida Elena Parraga, was born in San Salvador, El Salvador on August 7th 1966. She is an artist, writer, and poet. In 1995  her artistic talents won her first place in the Central American Literature Essay Competition for young women, convened by UNESCO. She spent many years teaching in China, in the 90s and later in the decade went back to her hometown in El Salvador where she currently still resides in.

Poetry originally written in Spanish, translated by me. =)

Peace for Central America; Looking back After Decades of Wars and Masacres

 Oil Pastel by Mercedes Vega

Background/History:
Learning about the civil wars of Central America, was part of my upbringing as kid. I met one of my uncles who developed PTSD, two that came here under asylum for taking part in the Guerilla aka as the FMLN in El Salvador. They were kidnapped and tortured for days by Right military supported by the Reagan Administration, who was also responsible in instigating and directly killing groups of innocent civilians. The rest of my family who came here as refugees, told me some of the most gruesome stories about kidnaps, cold killings, and the recruiting of innocent young people trained to kill and fight their own people.

 El Salvador has had a long history of fighting economically liberal elites, who have  have controlled most of the largest export in our land;coffee, in the past decades. Among the most affected since 1932 were our indigenous people working as farmers to the wealthiest land owner in El Salvador at the time. The first massacre ("La Matanza") listed in this picture is an example of one of the biggest killings of over 40,000 Salvadoran, mostly from the Pipil Indian group. These fights and wars have not been limited to El Salvador, but were also present in Guatemala and Honduras for similar reasons. Many artist expressing the grief, feelings and beliefs about the ongoing social injustice/inequality have been censored, killed, threatened and forced to exile. Their work has been hiding in the shadows and/or destroyed by the very own government and political leaders.

There is so much more to El Salvador, Guatemala, Honduras and the rest of Central American countries than  civil wars and violence though. We have some of the most profound writers who have shared their depictions of the beautiful land and culture through imagery, art and poetry. Recently, we have seen more film-makers and photographers, along with writers begin to shed light in the untold history and heroines/heroes who have worked towards achieving peace in these regions. As a daughter of Salvadoran parents, and ancestry of Guatemala, I believe that it's time to mend the broken pieces of this isthmus through our inner creativity.

La Colonia Santa Isabel, en El Salvador 04/2011- "La Abuela Conziendo"

   

 I still remember my first time visiting Santa Isabel Village in El Salvador, this is the place where my mother and family grew up.  For a long time, ever since I was a little girl, my mom would tell me and my siblings about the big house she lived in with my aunts. She used to make bread in a bakery, and my aunts' grandmother sold homemade foods in the mornings. They all walked to the central market to work.  The most interesting thing about it was how close they lived to a cemetery. My mother would tell us that they always had to pass by it everyday, and when I met my uncles here in the U.S, they would tell us scary stories about the place. The legends of "The Traka Traka", or "The Cepitillo" and "The Llorona", which coincidentally happen to hang out by there. But on this day, on my fist visit to this village, I saw this lady sewing a dress-very peacefully, after serving breakfast to her family who ate black beans, eggs and plantains with cream, and of course, black coffee heated in a pot. Everyone ate without a rush. She sat on her chair to sow while the sun illuminated the next step in her seam.
                                                                                            4/2011-   MLV

Yo Como Tu (I, like you) by -Roque Dalton (Translated M.L. Vega)

I, like you,

Love love, life, the sweet delight

of things, blue sceneries

in the days of January

Also, my blood swarms and I laugh through the eyesthat have recognized the outburst of tears.

I believe the world is beautiful,

that poetry is like bread, it belongs to everyone.

And that my veins don’t end inside me,

but in the unanimous blood of

those who fight for life,

love,

things,

landscapes and the bread;

Everyone’s poetry.

Arbol (Tree) by Claudia Lars (translated M.L.Vega)

The tree stands, in the silence,               

sleeps profoundly

and at last touches the white borders

of the clouds of June

The tree copies the colors

of the world's light

and repeats them and bestows them

in the leaves and buds.

The tree rocks--everlasting child--

its fragrant swings

and rehearses voices and whistles

in perfect ensemble.

Disguises its strength with the soft

fuzz of moss;

stores the music in whisper

of the occult dens.

Holds up leafs of pride;

filters in the piece, the virtues

of sap and extract.

Breaks the fog of winter

with its sharped fingers;

stops the blue zephyr of air

and returns more pure.

Warps the rustling foliage

--eaves of shelter--

and opens the doors to the traveler

in sunlight and in full moon.

Captures in its crevices the buzzes

of the yellow honeycombs;

allows its riches to be looted

by dark insects.

Signals the place that wandering birds cannot find;

sustains the anxiety of their strand in the hazy flight.

Precisely there -- true joy,

song of the profound!--

ties the dream of infinity

with the inner-depths of the world.