"So come to the pond or the river of your imagination, or the harbor of your longing. And put your lips to the world and live your life." -Mary Oliver

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 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?

Playing Jacks

We sat on the porch of her school.
I watch while she and her friends
play jacks, the ball bouncing up,
her small hands moving quickly
over the cement to gather the scattered metal stars.

I can't wait.
I want to play.
Without a word of Spanish,
I take the ball,
look at her,
ask with my eyes
if I can play.

She is ready.
I am better than what I remembered,
winning the first game.
But that is the last one.
Her eyes sparkle with competition
while she leaves the "Norte Americana"
in the dust.

Eggs in the basket,
crack an egg,
Snowball, Onesies, Twosies,
up to 10 and back.
She knows them all
and shows me her style.

I would not have been any
good at all had it not been
for the hours of practice,
playing on my neighbor's
hardwood floors in the Indiana
afternoon humidity, years ago.

Games that prepared me
for this moment, miles from home,
under a May afternoon sun,
with this brown-eyed expert jacks player
in the Salvadoran countryside.


Jesus Lucia

She was the oldest woman in the village.
Lost her husband and sons
in the twelve year war in El Salvador.
She lived alone in her hut,
taken care of by her friends,
honored by all who lived there.

When we visited her
on that hot Sunday afternoon,
she was sitting in the dark coolness
of her two rooms, waiting.

When we walked in,
she knelt before the priest,
her knees on the dirt floor of her home.
Bending her head, she crossed herself
and asked for his blessing.

I caught my breath
at her reverence,
felt tears at her humility.

Today, in a restaurant
in my own town in the States,
I discuss religion with a good friend.
Our talk turns to Jesus.
I don't know what I believe
about him anymore.
She says she appreciates
his suffering, his realness
in being human.

I try to hear her
but I can only think of Jesus Lucia,
her brown wrinkled face,
the heat of the Salvadoran spring,
the sweat and closeness
of that dark hut,
that moment of faith
I will never forget.


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.