Mama grande Mama Grande

Mama grande

En aquellos días atravesando
caminos de polvo y sol
iban las carretas de toldo
la yunta de bueyes
pausados bajaban las hondonadas,
la niña sentada con los pies colgados,
mirando, el perro detrás,
piñuelares a un lado y otro del camino.
Las mujeres adentro,
las ollas, los motetes de ropa.
Los hombres bolos riéndose.
Y la mama grande,
Con su pañuelo en la cabeza,
fumando silenciosa, patrona y matrona,
de todo lo que tuvieron
vida o no a su alrededor,
ordenando todo,
pensando en todo,
sentada en el taburete
adentro de la carreta,
con los ojos pequeñitos
viéndolo todo,
con sus manos gordas y grandes,
haciendo gestos de mando.
A medio camino
decidía parar el viaje,
encender fuego y calentar comida.
Hacen café.
El perro brinca alegre.
La nina se ríe.
Bajaban a la mama grande
con todo y el taburete
y le buscaban sombra.
Las mujeres comenzaban a trabajar,
Los hombres en cuclillas
encendían sus puros.
La mama grande
con su puro en la mano,
con su ojillos entrecerrados,
observaba todo.
 

Mama Grande

In those days travelling along
roads of dust and sun
tented wagons used to go,
the yoked oxen
ambling down the hollows,
the girl sat, her feet dangling,
looking out, the dog behind,
on either side piñuela fields along the road.
The women inside,
the pans, the knots of bundled clothes.
The drunken men laughing.
And the mama grande,
scarf on head,
silently smoking, patrona and matrona
of all around her,
living or not,
in charge of everything,
thinking of everything,
sat on the bench
inside the wagon,
with tiny little eyes
that see everything,
with her big soft hands
gesturing commands.
In the middle of the journey
she would decide to stop
to light a fire and heat up food.
They make coffee.
The dog jumps, happy.
The girl laughs.
They’d get the mama grande down,
bench and all,
and find her shade.
The women start work,
the men on haunches light cigars.
The mama grande,
cigar in hand,
her eyes half-shut,
watching everything.
 

Big Mama

For Socorro Brantome
 
On those days going down
roads of dirt and sun
went covered wagons
the oxen yoke
unhurried down the hollows,
the girl sat with feet overhanging
looking, the dog behind
piñuela fields to one side, on the other the road.
The women inside,
the pots, the bundles of clothes.
The drunken men laughing.
And the big mama
with a scarf on her head
smoking silently, patron and matron
of all those who had
life or not around her,
ordering everything
thinking of everything
sitting on the bench
inside the wagon,
with those tiny eyes
seeing everything,
with her chubby large hands,
would make commanding gestures.
Halfway down the road
she’d decide to stop the journey,
light a fire and heat up food.
They make coffee.
The dog jumps happily.
The girl laughs.
They’d get big mama down
with bench and all
and find her shade.
The women would start to work,
the men squatting down
would light their cigars.
The big mama
with cigar in hand
and little eyes half shut
would observe it all.
 

Don’t we all want a mama grande leading our wagon through the fields?

This is a poem which celebrates women’s often uncelebrated power. It elevates the titular matriarchal figure; wryly comments on women’s unpaid labour, which is contrasted with the men who laze around; and explores the power of the female gaze, focusing on both the mama grande’s tiny-eyed omniscience and the girl looking out of the wagon.

When translating, we opted to keep a few phrases in Spanish. We went for ‘mama grande’ rather than ‘big’ or ‘grand mama’, situating her as a type of figure in Nicaragua, not one person. We also kept ‘piñuela’ in the original, as it disrupted the tone too much to translate it as a dwarf pineapple (bromelia karata). And we enjoyed ‘patrona and matrona’ too much to translate it: it’s easily understandable to mean ‘patron and matron’, and we couldn’t replicate in English that clever mutation of the masculine ‘patron’ (which comes from the Latin for ‘father’) into a feminine ‘patrona’.

The poem’s shifting tenses also help us to connect with this tradition. Carola Brantome opens with ‘in those days’, as if a mama grande herself is telling us this shared history; here, she uses the past imperfect (signifying actions that are habitual or last a long time) and gerund forms (‘-ing’). But near the poem’s end, the poet brings us back to now through present tenses and short, end-stopped lines: ‘They make coffee. / The dog jumps, happy. / The girl laughs.’ This is not only a tale of the past, but a way of life that continues into the present, just like the wagons themselves travelling along the road, down the page and into the future. It was a joy to translate.

Helen Bowell, Poet Facilitator

Original Poem by

Carola Brantome

Translated by

Helen Dixon with The Poetry Translation Workshop Language

Spanish

Country

Nicaragua