Mama Nigra in Gwangju Korea

Dear Mama Nigra,

My heart is exploding in joy wrapped as a gift in bojagi tradition 

For my feet may leave but my spirit stays 

under the spell of Yangnim as sunshine forest

With warm colorful memories of Gwangju as province of light 

Where every courtyard burst with golden persimmon and blood red pomegranate

Where artists overflowing masterful strokes thrive in every corner

Mornings in Horanggasinamu 

Blends espresso brew and sunrise dew

Grow stories from the ancient past of Baekje kingdom  

Historical past of Goreo where Korea derived her distinct name

As thorned Holly trees grow for centuries

Stood witness to the kindness of Elizabeth 

Nursing hungry children and impoverish village

Like tiger claws with prickly leaves of holy trees remain evergreen 

Even in the changing climate of rise and fall of dynasty and empires 

History sings like a lullabye of bright green dancing leaves

As if caressing a lost child's heart to come home 

The sweet smell of Autumn surrounds kind hospitable village

Just as golden celebrant overwhelmingly celebrates the fine kitchen flavors

Ancient text and paintings come alive by revered media artist

Housemates animate heartwarming stories of pink palms and arctic water bubbles

Writing existential verses after warm macoli and ringing wine glasses

An ordinary afternoon turned magical with precious tea ceremony with a touch of gold dust 

On kintsugi mended broken tea cup by no less than a national artist  

Whose calloused hands form the most delicate relief stoneware sculptures 

Transforming dirt into forms of elegance

Black silhouettes painted out of a painful people struggle 

Turned the canvass powerful diary of an artist 

Unearthing stories on huge bold strokes of blue 

Asking questions catching attention

In delightful gentle fragrance of gold and silver blooms 

Awaken the laughters buried in fear past the dreadful pandemic

As delicious scent of bread and coffee across a notable marker of Christian faith

Common people posed as disciples in the last supper 

In silent conversation on a brick wall of quant narrow street

Marks a testament of believers 

While aged early morning visitors under your canopy 

Chat comfortably like old neighbors who has the young excitement of loyal friends

Wakes me up in their strange dialect seasoned wisdom 

As I participate in joy and excitement 

Picking up hazel nuts and freshly fallen black wallnuts

While leaves slowly turn yellow and many hues of orange 

As life changes like the cycle of season

Doors of friendship opens and slowly closes wounds of past

Cool autumn breeze watches under poetic fullmoon rise

With playful clouds tracing Mudeungsan long curves

Like arirang let us overcome a difficult hill together

In a woman's body of tears stories of pain is the language of freedom

In the land of trauma where people fought hard

A new door invites healing, forgiveness and hope

To break the cycle of trauma upon a woman's shoulder and heal several generations 

While artists thrive deeply connected as friends survives even the darkest times

Meanwhile Korean drama shoot next door stops everything

Takes us back to the here and now 

Reminds us on what to fight, love or live for...

Thank you Maria for this photo with Mama Nigra and for this beautiful journey .. this poem is my gift to you and the people of Gwangju...

Much love,

Rosa

This poem is my gift to the generous hospitable people of Gwangju...

(Nostalgic of art residency to the tune of jazzy full moon breeze wishful thinking for another date with Mr Sunshine... :)