Born in Richmond, Indiana, Barb Schwegman has made Bloomington her home for over 40 years. Graduating from DePauw University in 1974, she has worked various jobs from a dishwasher to a kindergarten teacher in a local school. She has been writing for over 40 years and the poems to be read today are from her two published books, Poems of Central America and Nightwalking.

Welcome to the Poets Weave, I'm Romayne Rubinas Dorsey. Barb, what poems have you brought for us today?

Two White Girls Go to Market

We sat on the steps of the cathedral,
smoke from burning corn stalks,
incense, candles in the air.

Multicolored weavings, warm brown faces,
a hot blue sky and the traditional dress
of a persecuted people filled our sight.

A man stood in front of me talking with his friend.
My friend turned to me and said
"you won't understand any of that, sweetheart. He's talking Mayan."
I laughed because she was absolutely right
and I was feeling so, well, white.

We sat listening to Latin music from handmade instruments,
not wanting to move,
not wanting to shop,
just wanting to sit and for a moment,
just for a moment,
not be a tourist.

It was hot and there was no need to move,
except for the people blocking our view.

Reluctantly, we began to walk,
and I was glad to be with my friend
who was as nonchalant as I felt.

We stopped in another church,
color leading the way.
I pay to take pictures of the poor people.
The Mayans, who were just being themselves.

We left to buy coffee and more trinkets
until we had enough of ourselves.
Being gringos and spending money.

So, we found our way to solitude and safety,
rest and quiet
in a garden of palm trees and birds of paradise.
Taking our whiteness with us.
----------------------
Leaving El Salvador

On the last day of leaving
the country of El Salvador,
we walk, as a group, into a
small restaurant.

It is strange to be inside
where food is served.
Not outside sitting around a picnic
table where Lita sets beans and rice
in front of us like she has the past
six days.

It is obvious we are
North Americans.
The other customers all look
at our white faces as we walk in.

One man, perhaps a few drinks
under his belt, stands up
holding a glass of something,
speaks loudly,
"I love my country," he says in English.
"El Salvador is beautiful! I love El Salvador!"

We had just come from the village
where I fell in love with the people,
their work, their way of life.

El Salvador, the country of volcanoes.

Yes, I think, with tears in my eyes.
El Salvador.

May it always be safe.
May it always be blessed.
----------------------
For Walter and Scott

We drove through the mountains,
swerving against each other.

His voice filled the darkness
with sweetness
and took my fears away.

It is a simple thing,
what a voice can do.

The three of us traded songs
and jokes while our bodies
bumped and rocked back and forth
over gravel roads.

We came down the mountain together,
the others quiet or asleep in the back of the van.

Our voices were the only ones
heard in the stillness,
in a country where voices
are too often quieted.

You’ve been listening to the poetry of Barb Schwegman on the Poets Weave. I’m Romayne Rubinas Dorsey.