On the Transformation of Amerindian and African Mythology — Olive Senior

Although in my forthcoming collection of stories (The Pain Tree, Toronto, Cormorant, 2015) I am playing with some of these elements, it is poetry that I have used for this kind of exploration, especially of mythology and folk and traditional beliefs. In Gardening in the Tropics, I have a whole section called “Mystery,” which are poems looking at the Yoruba Orishas, through their manifestations in the New World, where they are called by different names. These African gods are very much alive in the New World, unlike the gods of Greece and Rome that we were told about in school. What I have tried to capture in the poems is their essence. Although their names might change, the essence of that spirit remains the same. They are alive in religions such as Vaudou (Haiti) in Shango (Trinidad), in Candomble (Brazil), in New York City, in Cuba, and so on.

“Marassa” is a poem about the divine twins as they are called in Haiti. There are also poems about the God of Hunting, the God of Iron, and so on. Babalu, god of the earth, is originally the god of smallpox, he cures smallpox but he also gives it. The gods give and they also take away. It is up to their devotees to appease them.

([…] on our skin something
is breaking out and threading its way,
like beads.) Lord, accept our offering,
our vever of grain placed outside
our gates to save you the pain
of that long walk in the sun-hot.
[…] the marks of your last
visit we wear forever on our skin
[…]
We thank you for the beads; we thank you
for the peanuts; we thank you for the
sesame seeds; we thank you for the gourds;
we thank you for the smallpox. And if
you do choose to come in, we pray you
find everything so spotless your broom
will not dislodge a single grain of dust,
for it would grow into such a whirwind
(of pox, pestilence, plague) you’d sweep
the entire country clean
[…] we who succumb so easily to temptation; for we know,
Doctor of the Poor, if you send affliction,
you also hold the power to heal us.
(“Babalu: God of the Earth,” GT 127-128)

Nowadays, people with AIDS invoke him because AIDS manifests itself on the skin also. The Orishas are kept alive among the worshippers because they are flexible enough to meet contemporary needs. Guédé is the Haitian Lord of the dead; his personification is that of a greedy sexually predatory guy, a bit of a joker, but he has the power of life and death. On the surface he might appear even childish; beneath the surface there is a lot of wisdom behind these concepts.

[…] You think
I’m just a trickster, playing
the cocksman, joking around,
working brain. Remember: is you
waiting on me, not the other
way: today you here, tomorrow
you gone — if I say. Pray
I don’t come dressed in top hat
and tails, […]
(“Guédé: Lord of the Dead,” GT 136)

As far as Amerindian mythology is concerned I have a lot of poems such as the ones about key food crops, Cassava (or Yuca) and Maize. “The First House” addresses the myth of turtle mother, utilising a Taino myth. The first house is the turtle shell. If you look at the shape of Amerindian housing, through the Americas, that is the shape, even today.

Homeless, Deminán and his brothers,
orphaned and wandering forefathers
Winds of Four Quarters, blew hither
and yon until
Turtle-Woman stopped them
in their tracks: the first mating. Said:
I am ready for nesting. Said: Build me
a house. Untrained but undaunted
(in the way of such heroes) they each
took a corner of the world, stood like
pillars to anchor it, and strained and
puffed to lift high the roof of the sky,
which billowed out and in (they had
a hell of a time controlling it) until
it righted itself and domed into
the model of Turtle-Woman’s shell.
And so we were born in the House
of our Great Mother, our crabbed
and comforting genitor, who still bears
our first house on her back.
(“The First House,” Shell 71)

“Taíno Genesis” is the retelling of the Taino creation myth, their emergence from a cave.

We the people of Cacibajagua emerged
from the cave the moment Sun’s longest leg
splintered the horizon […]
we emerged dressed in our naked
best, not yet possessed of the feathers and beads
of the red anotto paint, the gift of Sun Father,
color of worship and warrior, of
Hummingbird’s iridescence. We would come
into the world stained black with our sacred
juice, guinep, colour of difficult passage
and tumescence. We would bleach in the sun
for nine days; then to the water to gather
the sacred herb digo, for the washing
to remove the last traces of our birth passage.
Guinep stain running like rain
till we reached again bare skin, our palette ready
for our first painting […]
[…] We were Taíno, the ones gifted
with guinep of jagua. With sacred bixa: the herb
anotto. The ones shelled out by Sun father.
(“Taíno Genesis,” Shell 18-19)

Maize is sacred to Mexicans and people of South America who believe the first humans were created from maize. So I created the maize-mother, speaking. If you look at a corn-stalk, and how the cobs grow they have to be ripped apart to be propagated.

Mothers will understand this…
Okay, perhaps I spoil them. Bearing them now, not solitary
and naked like the first but many together, gift-wrapped […]
(“Maize,” Shell 14-15)

Cassava or yuca was the Taínos’ food of life, their daily bread. Their whole life, their religion, everything was bound up with growing cassava. There are two varieties, one is called sweet, one is called bitter, and bitter cassava is poisonous. Thousands of years ago, native South Americans discovered how to expel the poison from bitter cassava in order to eat it. It is quite a complicated process and the same process that is used today in every country including Jamaica to treat bitter cassava. I describe the process in the poem in which I also capture the sacred nature of yuca:

Cut me down. For you, I die each season. This is my
body. Come, dig me, peel me, grate me, squeeze me,
dry me, sift me, spread me, heat me.
Give me life again. Eat me.
(“Cassava/Yuca,” Shell 20).

“Guava” is another sacred plant. I have found so many correspondences between contemporary life and the Taíno, who we were taught as children had just vanished as the conquerors came, but I think there is a lot of this indigenous element in us. I was thinking of these connections. I was in Barbados, and I went to stay with a friend whom I hadn’t seen for a long time. She did not seem well, something was wrong. Shortly after I left, she collapsed from an aneurism and died. When I first walked into her house, I was overwhelmed by the smell of guava, and the cook said, “Boy, the tree won’t stop bearing, I don’t like it.” I knew that in our folklore, if a tree starts bearing to excess, it means somebody is going to die. Within a few days my friend was dead. I was aware that among the Taíno, their Lord of death is Maquetaurie Guayaba—Lord of the Guava—because the dead Taíno are believed to come out at night and feast on guavas. So, in the poem, I link the Taíno and the contemporary beliefs:

Maud was making guava jelly
when she said to me: “I don’t
like it when guava tree starts
to bear too much. I take it
as a sign. Remember that time
in Barbados?”
… that house scented with guava
and Maud trying to reduce the vast
quantity of fruit you kept harvesting.
That week she made guava jelly, guava
cheese, guava paste, stewed guava,
and blended the pulp into drink.
But your tree would not stop
producing. It bore faster than she
could cook or we could consume.
I think of you, stricken so suddenly.
I say nothing. To her it would seem
extreme if I said that the Taíno
zemi of the dead is called Maquetaurie
Guayaba—Lord of the Guava—and that
it is he who instructs the tree when
to speed up production so that
the incoming soul will have enough of
the fragrance of guava to feed on.
(“Guava/2 (for Myrth),” GT 74)

Guinep and Anatto are two other sacred plants. Anatto provides a red dye used in food coloring today; the Taino used it on their bodies which is why Columbus thought he had discovered “Red Indians.” Guinep, rubbed on the skin, will turn black temporarily and is used in death rituals. These are plants we take so much for granted today, but they were two of the most sacred plants of the Taíno.

Well, with the Arawaks and others who were
here before us
it wasn’t so. Nothing could happen without
anatto paste
or guinep stain to paint their bodies
with.
Guinep black to summon the rain clouds;
anatto red
for war. They also used both for things
in between like
medicine and curing or birth or death.
Patterns in red
or black were to them like dressing up
for occasions.
They wore these colors on their bodies
as we wear clothes:
to protect themselves, to signify or
engage in play;
as markers on the road of life or as
flags signaling
in the most straightforward way:
look at me:
I’m beautiful! So give a thought to
forgotten anatto
to humble guinep and the memory
of the ol’people
who weren’t the first to wear them
anyway:
How do you think Moon got stained
black like that?
What do you think Sun used to redden
its face?
(“Anatto and Guinep,” GT 76-77)

A lot of the poems in Gardening in the Tropics are based on Taíno mythology or reference current folklore. For instance, “Pawpaw” (Papaya) has a lot of legends associated with it.

Everybody likes pawpaw
but some don’t like it planted
too near the house.
Me too.
I know for a fact
that tree will sap your strength
waste your muscle
draw you down
to skin and bone.
To nutten.
An ol’ lady
told me that.
It’s better to plant it
the far side of the fence.
(“Pawpaw,” GT 78)

“Bamboo” is playing around with various stories on a common theme.

[…] Duppies inhabit bamboo root
and if I don’t take care those spirits
will cause my head to twist around, my
tongue to tie, my eyes to shoot up
straight out of my head as bamboos do
from the ground.
(“Bamboo (In Five Variations),” GT 81)

“The Colors of Birds,” that is based on Amerindian mythology, is explaining why birds have different colors of plumage, they killed the anaconda to gain these colors. I extended this to make a statement about modern life, about the importance of skin color and so on.

After the killing, they dipped
their bodies, legs, heads, and beaks into the palette
of Anaconda’s remains to stain themselves with.
Some are show-offs now […]
[…] in any case in the color
domain the spirit of the Anaconda—as the Rainbow—
continues to reign pre-eminent.
[…]
that other monster has not yet been slain. So when it
comes to the color of skin, pigmentation is not yet in.
(“The Colors of Birds,” GT 91-92)

“The Tree of Life” is based on a myth of the Caribs in Guyana, it is my favorite story. The earth is first destroyed by fire, then by flood and human survivors are starving. They find this magic tree which bears every kind of fruit. They feed from the tree but then are ordered to cut it down. That is a test, the first test for humankind. They cut down the tree and from it come many different plants. This is a myth about the origin of food plants. I use that as a basis for a critique of modern agriculture. Jamaican farmers like my father, they’d grow a cash crop like yam or bananas but they’d always have a mixture to ensure that they could always feed their family; it is like having a food bank. Whereas modern agriculture is saying, plant one crop. I am linking the present with the lesson first learnt:

The Mighty One took pity and planted
deep in the interior a tree so
ubiquitous it bore on its branches
food of every different kind. […]
[…] In front of this
unimaginable tree we fell down and
praised Him—and then we ate our fill.
[…]
So imagine our dismay when out of
the blue His voice came one day and said:
Cut the Tree Down! We trembled, but obeyed,
chopping away for generations
until it swayed and fell […]
[…] He ordered us to take from
the branches slips and cuttings and plant
them everywhere. And that is how we
acquired crops for cultivating. From
that time I’ve been a convert of
mixed farming though, of late, I’ve
noticed the agricultural officers
[…]
have been coming around to try and
persuade us to chop everything down
and plant only one crop. They say we can
get more money that way—from exporting. […]
(“The Tree of Life,” GT 93-94)

“Seeing the Light” is a critique of Christianity which destroyed local culture.

[…]
We never took more than we needed. Always gave back
(to Earth) our thanks and our praises, never failed
to salute the gods of the rain, the wind, the sun,
and the moon in her phases.
[…] You told us your
one God had the power to bring us the true light,
but we’ve waited in vain. To this date—as catastrophe
holds sway and earth continues to burn—there are
things we still cannot learn. Why did those
who speak of Light wear black, the color
of mourning? Why was their countenance so grave?
Why on a dead tree did they nail the bringer
of light, one Cristo, torture and kill him
then ask us to come, bow down and worship him? […]
(“Seeing the Light,” GT 95-96)

“Amazon women” is based on the legend of warrior women which began in Guyana in the Amazon basin. Walter Raleigh called them Amazons. I am joking about how these men like Columbus and Walter Raleigh came along and made up these stories. It is a long narrative.

Gardening in the Tropics, sometimes
you come across these strong Amazon
women striding across our lands a
like Tooeyza who founded the Wori-
shiana nation of female warriors
in the mountains of Parima—of whom
the missionary Brett and Sir Walter
Raleigh wrote. […]
when the warriors went away—
to war or voyages—it was the
women who kept the gardens going
and sometimes of the men were not
heard from again (as occasionally
happened) they banded together and
took up arms to defend the territory.
So somebody—like Cristobal Colón
or Sir Walter Raleigh—could have
come along and heard these (marvelous)
tales of (fabulous) lands full of
(pure) gold and fierce (untamed,
exotic) women (you know how men stay!).
And the rest (as they say) is history. […]
(“Amazon Women,” GT 97)

With “The Immovable Tenant” (GT 101-106) I am using the old woman as the representative of somebody who is challenging so-called “development” or imperialist interventions in the hemisphere.

[…] She says these
hurry-come-up schemers build on sand.
She’s watching them fill up their pockets
but she knows once the going gets rough,
the digging too tough, they’ll leave,
abandon her house and land, jettison
their efforts to the jungle. […]
Strangers might occupy my house and land
from time to time, but from this redoubt,
I always repossess it, inch by inch.
With the help of the steadfast tropical
sun, wind, and rain, with the help of the
termites, the ants, the wood lice, and
the worms, I always reclaim. I can wait, […]
(“The Immovable Tenant,” GT 101-106)

“Gardening on the run” is based on Caribbean history, especially that of the Maroons, slaves who fought for their freedom.

[…] I who
spent so many years in disquiet,
living in fear of discovery,
am amazed to discover, Colonist,
it was you who feared me. Or
rather, my audacity. […]
(“Gardening on The Run,” GT 110)

In “Advice and Devices,” I am contrasting beliefs that are handed down from generation to generation with “modern” scientific advice. 

[…] Take pumpkin. (The
morning you plant it, plan
nothing else for the day, for
once you put the seeds in the
ground and water, you must stay
at your yard, lie down and rest
unless you want your pumpkin
to grow worthless and run around
with no time to settle down and
bear. And when the vine is nicely
blossoming, ask a pregnant lady
to walk all over it to make the
fruits set and grow full, like
how she’s showing. […]
(“Advice and Devices,” GT 111-114)

Farmers used to plant Overlook Bean; because someone can cast the evil eye on your crop, the Overlook Bean grows very tall and can see danger coming; it is a magic bean.

[…] Should the
evil-doers still trespass (for even
Overlook Bean has to rest) be sure
to burn wangla (but not to excess).
Wit the ashes, mix a trace of the
dirt from their footstep with powdered
hummingbird wings […]
(“Advice and Devices,” GT 112)

There are a lot of bird poems in my book Over the Roofs of the World. “The Pull of Birds” describes Columbus’s first voyage when he had no idea where he was; until he followed migrating birds.

[…]
       And suddenly from the north a density
              of birds flying south, their autumn migration
                     intersecting his westward passage.
At such an auspicious conjunction, his charts
       he threw out, the flocks drew him south
              across the blue fabric of the Atlantic.
                     Weary mariners buoyed by the miracle
                            of land soon, of birds flying across the moon.
(“The Pull of Birds,” ORW 9)

The secrets of the parrot are practices of the Amerindians.
His captors use smoke to draw him in: pimento wood and
resin on a fire built under the tree parrot is perched in.
They’ll sit and wait till Parrot is stunned enough to drop.
(“The Secret of Capturing Parrot,” ORW 13)

“Bird-Man/Bird-Woman” is about the creation of a shaman who has to die, go through fire, become a skeleton then be born again. To serve others he/she has to learn to fly to other realms. I found the link between shamanism and gold in the work of Gerardo Reichel-Dolmatoff, Goldwork and Shamanism,1 and this shaped the poem:

Over-time, representations of the bird-shaman in pre-Colombian gold work evolved into heart-shaped icons.

[…] Purified, you will rise again another day as that other being, the one destined to serve, destined to cure, destined to recover lost souls, destined, Poet, to sing. But first, soul traveller, you have one more test to meet. Flight as the only way home. […]

(“Bird-Man/Bird-Woman,” ORW 91)

I have worked on these poems by doing a lot of research. I explore the subject exhaustively and eventually I find a way into the poem, what the connection or thread is. “Hummingbird:” the hummingbird is a symbolic bird in all the islands. The “doctor bird” is the symbol of Jamaica. They are everywhere, very visible, very beautiful, a representation of something which is iconic. For the Aztec Mexicans, a hummingbird is a warrior or a woman who died in childbirth, people who are honored, so I wanted the rhythms to capture this warrior spirit:

your daily stance your warrior pose
against the Sun to vanquish foes.
Your virility glows. For your capoeira
dance, the drum rolls beaten by your heart.
(“Hummingbird,” ORW 27)

“Woodpecker” is also mythic in the Americas: there was a time when women vanished, so a new woman had to be created, out of a wooden tree trunk but it had no female parts. The woodpecker was the one who pecked at it to create the vagina. I had fun with this poem; the tree is rejecting everybody because it is waiting for the woodpecker.

Women were created from yellow-skin plum trees
transformed by the action of the woodpecker
(Amerindian myth, Epigraph to “Woodpecker,” ORW 28)

“Magpie:” the magpie is the only Canadian bird in the book, but it is based on universal beliefs. I lived in Edmonton for a year, and I was so taken with the magpies; they behaved as if they owned the city. They are bold, and invasive, and also much disliked, if you believe all the stories about them. I like magpies, so I wrote a poem to try and redeem their reputation.

You’ve been accused of ‘conspicuous arrogance’, greed,
gossip, dissipation, vanity—Bacchus your lord, symbol
of drunkenness and garrulity; of engaging in
“indiscriminate collection”—known as thievery. […]
Your reputation needs
rescuing but you make it so hard as I find you
parading in yard after yard in our neighborhood,
sitting on fences, teasing the dogs, engaging in
seemingly senseless chatter — to divert from
what you plan to nick. […]
(“Magpie,” ORW 31)

Over the Roofs of the World also plays on the theme of thread. For instance, dancing around the Maypole in “Penny Reel” (ORW 80): it is a European dance that we danced everywhere in the colonies. The poem includes mythological elements too. “Ol’Higue” is a witch who sheds her skin at night and flies in the shape of a bat to feast on blood. She must assume her skin (and human shape) before daybreak. The term “Ol’Higue” is also applied to someone perceived as a nag in the shape of a woman.

[…] Who decides on our measure?
She addresses this to no one in particular.
Her man could be anywhere: penny-reeling,
at his gambling, the rum-bar. Perhaps (she is hopeful)

tonight he won’t come. Forever. No more scars
on her body criss-crossing like ribbons. No more
riding her. No more grinding her down. No more
turning her into Ol’Higue. If she knew how to stop

having children she’d do it. But there’s no one to ask.

[…] Keep dancing
till the dawn when witches must return to their skin.
Or be undone. Like the man coming in to curse her
—‘Ol’Higue’— when she asks where he’s been.
(“Penny Reel,” ORW 80-82)

“Basketmaker” is also about weaving, referring to South American mythology. In Warao culture (tropical South America), expert basket makers are believed to have a “specially reserved place in the after-life, once they have passed a final post-mortem test of their skills” (note ORW 105).

[…] For each one marks a step on the journey to perfection,
the reeds in your hand a weave of your post-mortem fate,
each twist of your wrist a template of your soul’s
patterning, your craft that will bear you up to the place
where the past masters dwell with the Divine Bird
of the Dawn.
Your hands cannot rest. After death you are still
compelled to weave as you navigate the final passage
where the dread Frog Mistress of Earth, arbiter of your fate,
scrutinizes every twist and turn. […]
(“Basketmaker,” ORW 90)

To me, poetry should take you outside of yourself, otherwise, it is just a statement. I am bored with just statements, I don’t want to read a poem which is just stating something; I want a poet who is giving me something, that will make me sit up, even if it is just one word.