I

o move slowly through my grandmother’s whole garden,

where every plant knows my name and I know theirs.

To pinch the Basil, Rosemary and Mint

and then smell the pleasing perfumed breath of their reply.

To count the number of children born each week to the ‘Mother of Thousands’,1

the plant that cured my cough during the rainy season’s cool days.

To climb among the branches of Guava or Mango mechudo trees,

where the birds shared the ripe fruits with me.

Bats love to dine on Guavas

and often I decided not to eat all the fruit

so that we could share.

In the morning, I was happy to confirm

that the Guavas I left were no longer there.

The Mango tree was an entire neighbourhood.

That’s where the adorable Pacific Parakeets lived

along with the distrustful Groove-Billed Anis

as well as the industrious Spot-Breasted Orioles with their sun-colored plumage.

And, well, that’s where I lived, too,

(the one human who had cousins and uncles who hunted Iguanas,

Doves, Armadillos and Deer).

As evening was beginning to fall, it was time to say goodbye,

and silence returned to the Mango tree.

From a distance, I could see when it welcomed the strident Great-tailed Grackles.

And as it grew darker, all kinds of owls arrived.

It was time to sleep.

Kneeling beside my bed,

I’d join my little hands together in prayer to my guardian angel,

hoping no owl would screech its harbingers of death.

Even though death is none other than all of us.

II

Part of the farm near the house was planted with sugar Cane

for twisting confections called alfeñiques, blocks of brown sugar, the sweet juice of guarapo and molasses.

I learned how to peel the Cane stalks with a machete and to measure their ripeness

by the purple color of the bark.

I chewed and drank that sweet, sticky liquid until my jaw ached.

And I did this at the same pace as the cattle chewed theirs.

The cows’ milk was more abundant

and so were my stomach pains

as my guts were cleaned right out.

Next to the sugar Cane grew a multitude of Reeds

that my grandfather used to make flutes with a single hole.

The hollow wand released its new voice that intertwined with my breath.

I’d climb one of the stones at the edge of the farm

and from there resounded every flute,

each with its own unique music.

The wind touched their tufts and made them laugh.

I’d fill them with air and listen to them sing.

III

The population of wild Tree Marigolds2 grew alongside all the planted fields.

And Piñuelas3 lined the roads.

Each year, the tall, thick-stemmed Marigolds transmitted enthusiasm

with the swaying of their bright orange flowers.

And with their stylized bodies, people made rooftops and bins to store corn.

Piñuelas supplied the table with their exotic and edible red flower.

If it was still young, it was cooked in tasty stews.

and if ripe, we’d make a delicious dessert called Motas de atol.

I can taste my childhood next to these wild pineapples that no longer exist.

And I have set my daily life by means of these towering Marigold blooms

jubilantly reborn in fields,

daring a never-ending human greed

to go ahead, just try and turn them into a new

invisible landscape.

Translated by Steven F. White

Paisaje Invisible

I

Recorrer el jardín de mi abuelita, donde cada planta sabe mi nombre y yo el suyo.

Pellizcar a la Albahaca, al Romero y a la Menta,

y recibir su aliento placentero y perfumado como respuesta.

Contar cada semana los hijitos que le nacían a la “Hoja del aire”,

ahí estaba la cura de mi tos en los días lluviosos y frescos del invierno.

Subir entre las ramas de la Guayaba o del Mango mechudo

donde los pájaros compartían los frutos maduros conmigo.

Los Murciélagos aman cenar Guayabas

y muchas veces renuncié a comerme algunas

para dejárselas a ellos.

Por la mañana, me agradaba confirmar

que ya no estaban.

El árbol de Mango era todo un vecindario.

Por un lado, estaban los adorables Chocoyos.

En el otro los desconfiados Pijules

y por otra parte, los laboriosos Chichitotes de plumaje dorado.

Y pues, bueno, también estaba yo,

(la humana que tenía primos y tíos que cazaban Garrobos,

Palomas de castilla, Cusucos y Venados).

Cuando empezaba a caer la tarde era el momento de despedirnos,

y el silencio regresaba al árbol de Mango.

A lo lejos, yo podía percibir cuándo recibía a los estridentes Zanates.

Y ya en la oscuridad, arribaban las lechuzas y los búhos.

Era la hora de dormir.

De rodillas al lado de mi cama,

juntaba mis manitas pidiendo a mi ángel de la guarda

que ninguna lechuza lanzara sus presagios de muerte.

Y la muerte seguimos siendo nosotros.

II

Una parte de la chácara cerca de la casa estaba sembrada de Caña de azúcar

que nos regalaba alfeñiques, atados de dulce, guarapo y melaza.

Aprendí a pelar con un machete las varas de caña y a medir su madurez

por el color púrpura de su corteza.

Masticaba y tragaba su pegajosa agua dulce hasta que se me cansaba la mandíbula.

Lo hacía al mismo ritmo que el ganado mascaba la suya.

A las vacas les aumentaba la leche

y a mí los dolores de estómago

al limpiarme las tripas.

Junto a la Caña de azúcar crecía una multitud de Carrizos

con los que mi abuelito fabricaba flautas de un agujero.

La varita hueca dejaba salir su nueva voz que se entrelazaba con mi aliento.

Yo me subía en una de las piedras a la orilla de la chácara

y desde ahí sonaba y sonaba cada flauta

su propia música.

El viento tocaba sus penachos y las hacía reír.

Yo las colmaba de aire y las escuchaba cantar.

III

La población de Jalacates estaba a lo largo de todas las huertas

y las Piñuelas bordeaban los caminos.

Cada año los Jalacates transmitían entusiasmo

con el bamboleo de sus anaranjadas y brillantes flores.

Y con sus estilizados cuerpos la gente fabricaba trojas y techos.

Las Piñuelas abastecían la mesa con su exótica y comible flor roja.

Si estaba recién nacida, se cocinaba en sabrosos guisos

y si estaba madura, tendríamos un delicioso postre de Motas de atol.

Puedo saborear mi corta edad junto a las piñuelas que ya no existen.

Y he fijado mi día a día a la par de las flores de Jalacate

que jubilosas renacen en los campos

desafiando la incesante avaricia humana

que las convierta en un nuevo

paisaje invisible.

Esthela Calderón, born in León, Nicaragua, is a poet and visual artist. Her books include the pioneering book of ethnobotanical poetry Soplo de corriente vital (2008), Coyol quebrado (2012), the bilingual anthology of her selected poetry The Bones of My Grandfather (2018), and Colmena de papel /Paper Beehive (Poetry and painting, 2022). Her poetry has been anthologised in The Mind of Plants: Narratives of Vegetal Intelligence, Ayahuasca Reader: Encounters with the Amazon´s Sacred Vine, El consumo de lo que somos: muestra de poesía ecológica hispánica contemporánea, as well as Ghost Fishing: An Eco-Justice Poetry Anthology, The Latin American Eco-Cultural Reader, Naturaleza poética and La poesía de los árboles. Her work as a visual artist was featured in individual exhibitions at the art gallery of the Municipal Building of St. Lawrence County in Potsdam, New York: ‘Inside the Ancestral Current’ (2017) and ‘Pollen’ (2019). Her group exhibitions include SUNY Potsdam (2017) and the Brush Gallery at St. Lawrence University: ‘Here and Now: Three Artist’ (2019) and ‘Listening to Water’ (2023).

Email: calderonchevezesthela@gmail.com

Steven F. White has edited and translated anthologies of poetry from Nicaragua, Chile and Brazil. He translated Federico García Lorca's Poet in New York, Pablo Antonio Cuadra's The Birth of the Sun and The Angel of Rain by Gastón Baquero. He is also the co-founder of the website Microcosms: A Homage to Sacred Plants of the Americas.

Email: stevenfwhite625@gmail.com