.

To Dance with Death

I caught the fierce gaze of the trickster, Death.
He charred bleak Aztec ruins with his breath
And shadowed me through pueblo, plaza, palace,
With knife in hand—a Mexican Macbeth.
The pyramids perspired with his malice.
An apparition with a straw hat crowned,
Death stalked me. Flying off volcano-bound,
He fleetly reappeared to quake the ground.
His eyes were glazed a hue of brownish-rud
Evoking ancient, pagan rites of blood.
He beckoned, grinned and laughed without a sound.

Death stared at me through strolling lovers’ eyes,
Fiesta-garbed, with songs and jocund cries,
Their calavera skulls with roses strewn,
The Dia de los Muertos in their sighs.
And in this garish crowd I stood alone.
Death clapped his hands to rhythmic drums apace,
His hair unruly, studying my face.
“Join with me and let’s end this morbid chase!”
“And take me how?” I said. “A crush of bricks?
Turn Xochimilco to the River Styx?
There must be someplace safe from your embrace!”

Death shrugged, strummed a guitar and sang of Spain;
Skin bronzed, mustached, about his neck a chain
Of silver crafted from the-Taxco mine.
His chest was bare and bore a scarlet stain.
He offered me a hand tinged with red wine
And promised me no pain, just quiet bliss.
I fled from him down streets like an abyss
But he kept up, impossible to miss—
Not fearsome, but flamenco-lean and taut.
He whispered to me “Rest” and I was caught.
He pulled me to him for his mortal kiss.

In this strange land La Muerte comes to call
Like family, not feared or shunned at all.
The door is left unlocked—he is no threat.
In Mexico, Death enters through the hall.
But then he stopped himself and said “not yet.”
How cold his hands yet amber-warm his glance!
His grimness turned to mirth by some strange chance.
He sang out raucous tunes as in a trance.
Carousing, scented like sweet marigold,
Death’s spirits soared. His voice grew brash and bold.
Delighted with the Chase, he bid me dance.

We danced for hours, early morn till noon.
We danced so hard, I knew I’d weaken soon
And Death would force his mortal kiss that kills.
But then, before the Temple of the Moon,
As sacred church bells tolled beyond the hills
Death spoke his truth: “I shall both take and give.
The joy you feel will lessen through my sieve;
The pain you feel my tender kiss will cleave.”
He freed my hand. Eyes bright with banished sorrow,
He grinned and strolled away. “Perhaps tomorrow.”
Capricious creature he, Death let me live.

.

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San Juan Diego

In those grave days when Montezuma reigned,
Young men were hunted down like wild boars;
Then bound upon an altar—crimson-stained—
Where priests cut out their beating hearts. The roars
Of frenzied crowds convulsed with savage thirst.
I still have nightmares of the screams and gore
From human sacrifice! This land was cursed
By brutal, hungry gods demanding more.
We Aztecs ruled with death and blood-soaked knives.
Then Christ came forth from Spain and changed our lives.

Cortez brought violent conquest… and relief;
For Aztec rites of blood were soon erased.
More Spanish came and shared their deep belief
In One who loved all men, whose arms embraced
Our sparring tribes and helped end pagan wrath.
We learned His Holy Mother soothed all scars.
But what a shock, when trudging up a path,
I saw Our Lady—lovely as the stars
With kindness bright as sunlight in her eyes!
She said upon that spot a church must rise.

I bowed before her as befit her station,
Then ran to tell the Bishop every word.
He claimed that she was my imagination
And asked for proof of what I’d seen and heard.
The Virgin came again and counseled me
To pick December roses and then place
Them in my cloak to prove my verity.
But when unrolled this cloth displayed her face!
The Bishop knelt to see Our Lady’s love
Convinced this was a sign from God above.

Maria’s image in my humble cloak
Was just the miracle our country needed.
It brought a symbol to the common folk
Of sanctity and virtue unexceeded.
The Son of God said all of us are brothers—
We Aztecs, Chichimecs and men from Spain—
But it’s Maria, blesséd among mothers,
Who showers us with hope and love like rain
Who weeps for us and offers us her hand.
Her holiness will surely heal our land.

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Poet’s Note: Juan Diego (1474–1548), the first Catholic saint indigenous to the Americas, was a Chichimec peasant who was granted apparitions of the Virgin Mary on four occasions in Mexico City in 1531, the last of which resulted in the miraculous imprint of her image upon his cloak or tilma – an image which has not degraded in almost 500 years and which is famous throughout the world as depicting Our Lady of Guadalupe. Juan Diego was canonized in 2002 and his visions of Mary and her miraculous image in his tilma are the basis for the veneration of Our Lady of Guadalupe throughout Mexico and Latin America.

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Brian Yapko is a lawyer who also writes poetry. He lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico.

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31 Responses

  1. Jeremiah Johnson

    Brian,

    I liked:

    “And take me how?” I said. “A crush of bricks?
    Turn Xochimilco to the River Styx?

    And loved “flamenco-lean” as a descriptor.

    The whole tryst and dance with death couldn’t fail bringing Bergman’s “The Seventh Seal”- yet your encounter’s not nearly as terrifying as you point out the fascinating paradox of a celebration in which death is so playful and exuberant – American Halloweens don’t hold a candle (or a Jack-O-Lantern) to The Day of the Dead!

    And thanks for some great historical story-telling in the second poem. Reminded me of Willa Cather’s novel “Death Comes for the Archbishop” – ever read that one?

    Reply
    • Brian A. Yapko

      Thank you very much, Jeremiah! I think it must be 40 years since I saw “The Seventh Seal.” I don’t actually recall it very well but am now inspired to rent it. It’s with Max von Sydow, right? It is always fascinating to see how different people imagine confrontations with a personified Death. In Mexico, he’s not quite the Grim Reaper that he is here in the U.S. Loved ones are never truly lost and it seems are just beyond the veil waiting to be summoned with a favorite meal and a scattering of marigold petals. I find the customs of Dia de los Muertos, though superficially macabre, to be rather comforting and even loving.

      It’s so funny that you mentioned “Death Comes for the Archbishop.” I read it around six months ago. I had put it off for years, but once we decided to leave Santa Fe (we’re moving to Florida in 9 days) it seemed like a bit of unfinished business. I love Willa Cather’s book. It is pervaded with the sights, sounds and flavors of northern New Mexico such that I found something familiar on almost every page. It is a charmingly fictionalized account of the adventures of Bishop Lamy who was the first bishop of Santa Fe in the New Mexico territory from the 1850s to the 1880s, who was friends with Kit Carson (who is canceled these days) and who built Santa Fe’s famous Basilica-Cathedral of St. Frances — a gorgeous cathedral where I have attended services several times. I’m delighted to know that you have read and enjoyed this fine book! I find it inspiring and moving.

      Reply
  2. Roy Eugene Peterson

    The Day of the Dead is mostly a one-, or two-day, affair on November 1st and 2nd that is filled with family traditions and reunions involving the five senses including offerings of plates of food to the departed. You must have done some deep research on the subject, likely personally as well as studying the history of the event. You continue to amaze with your rich wording and innate sensitivity to history and description of places and practices. Both poems also are intrinsically beautiful in their imagery and presentation. Great works of classical poetry that enchant and inform.

    Reply
    • Brian A. Yapko

      Thank you so much, Roy! Yes, you describe the Dia de los Muertos very accurately. As far as research, well I have lived for the last several years in New Mexico and it is something of a staple of the Halloween season here, so I’ve experienced it first-hand. During my trip to Mexico this last May, we also visited Patzcuaro and Tsintsuntsan — the villages where the Dia de los Muertos actually originates and there was much to learn there about its history and how it fits into Mexican culture.

      As for the San Juan Diego poem, I had the great privilege of seeing the miraculous tilma in person at the Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe in Mexico City. In a modern church which has a seating capacity of 10,000, the tilma is displayed in a very high, very safe place of honor behind bullet-proof glass (after a vandalism attempt.) It is an object of immense veneration. 20,000,000 people annually visit the Basilica, which makes it the most visited shrine in all of Christendom — even above the Vatican.

      Reply
  3. Paul A. Freeman

    I enjoyed the dance with death poem and the temporary escape from Mr Grim.

    There’s a Disney film called ‘Coco’ about the Day of the Dead. It’s is really good, largely because it’s not like your usual Disney film.

    Thanks for the reads.

    Reply
    • Brian A. Yapko

      Thank you very much, Paul! I have seen “Coco” three or four times — we bought the C.D. I have little respect for Disney these days (as you’ll discover from my forthcoming poem on the Disney Corporation) but “Coco” is a notable exception — perhaps because it was actually produced by Pixar rather than Disney itself. Perhaps because it also remains very true to the culture it depicts without having a social agenda other than being true to the culture it depicts. Not only do I love “Coco”… it is the only animated picture I have seen which has made me sob. The ending is an emotional punch to the gut. But as you must surely know by now, I’m a sucker for redemption stories.

      Reply
  4. C.B. Anderson

    If you, Brian, want to read a superb novel on this subject, then you should read Aztec by Gary Jennings. It has a sequel called Aztec Autumn.

    Reply
    • Brian A. Yapko

      Thank you for the recommendation, C.B. I just looked it up on Amazon and as soon as I get situated in Florida (we’re moving one week from tomorrow) I’ll order it. It looks like it’s well-reviewed and it is indeed a subject which interests me. I spent a goodly amount of time at the Anthropology Museum in Mexico City this last May and found many of the Aztec artifacts as well as the ruins of Teotihuacan to be astounding. If the civilization hadn’t been so brutally bloodthirsty, it might have built upon its incredible artistic and architectural legacy and the history of Mexico would be quite different.

      Reply
      • C.B. Anderson

        When you get to Florida, Brian, say hello to David Rubin for me. He moved there a couple of years ago to get away from California.

      • Brian A. Yapko

        I don’t know who that is, C.B., but I’ll be happy to look him up for you. I am hereby letting Evan and/or Mike know that you are welcome to my email address If you want to email me his information. I’m going to be in the Tampa Bay area, about halfway between Tampa and Sarasota. If your friend was anxious to get away from California then I’m sure we’ll be on the same page!

      • Brian A. Yapko

        C.B , now I get it! David Rubin, the conservative commentator who used to be a liberal! I didn’t know him so I looked him up. He and I have alot in common. Now I’ll have to start following him. He apparently moved to Miami. I will be on the opposite coast in the Tampa Bay area. Thanks for letting me know about him.

  5. Joseph S. Salemi

    This is the first time I have ever read a poem on Juan Diego, the Mexican Chichimec Indian who was the main figure in the appearance of the Blessed Virgin of Guadalupe, and the accompanying miracles of the Castilian roses and the sacred image on the tilma.

    When I was a youth in Woodside, one of the closest friends of the Salemi family was Dr. Charles J. Wahlig, an optometrist who resided in our neighborhood. He and his wife and children lived on Roosevelt Avenue near 58th Street, not far from the house that I have mentioned in my poem here about Calvary Cemetery some weeks back.

    Dr. Wahlig was a devout Catholic, and his examination of close-up photographs of the tilma’s sacred image (particularly of the Virgin’s eyes) led to his discovery of reflections that indicated the presence of various persons during the miraculous events. Dr. Wahlig wrote a book on Juan Diego outlining his discoveries, and giving a full optical explanation (with photographs) of the reflections seen in the Virgin’s eyes. His book was republished three times.

    Dr. Wahlig was devoted to Our Lady of Guadalupe, and this was long before Juan Diego was canonized, and before the story of that appearance was well known outside of Latin America.

    Brian, your poem brought back many memories. It has prompted me to say prayers for Dr. Wahlig and his wife.

    Reply
    • Brian A. Yapko

      Joe, this is an amazing story. I’ve been following the history of the miraculous tilma for a few years now and, in fact, the desire to see it in person is one of the reasons that we decided to visit Mexico City. As I mentioned to Roy above, it is housed in a very secure and honored place in the modern church at the Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe on Tepeyac Hill in Mexico City. And in virtually every video and book regarding this miracle one hears the Wahlig report cited. Yes, one of the miracles of the tilma is not only that it has not degraded in 500 years (something which defies any explanation); but no one can figure out how it was created in the first place, let alone with 15th Century technology. And in Mary’s eyes can be seen — as if she were alive in this cloak — microscopic reflections of the people who were present at time of the miracle. There is no explanation other than that this is an authentic miracle. I’m delighted that my poem brought back these memories for you and I’m especially delighted to hear of the prayers for Dr. Wahlig and his wife.

      Reply
  6. Margaret Coats

    Brian, you’ve written a classic on the danse macabre motif. It features in many works of art, and I know of a few in literature. Most are medieval, and we can imagine that the Black Death and recurrences motivated more thought on the topic. One poem is the catalogue-style chant royal by Austin Dobson (1840-1921), entitled “The Dance of Death.” Dobson stands back from the subject with his third-person point of view, but he writes one line that suggests a piece like yours. “Let be, sweetheart, to junket and to play,” his Death says to a wanton dame. Death speaks just that once in Dobson’s poem, with the tone of seductive contempt that pervades the acts of your Death figure. If I may speak of your first-person speaker as “you,” you carefully observe this ominous and very lively personage, you think of escape, and you talk back. You as poet create a tone of dread, appropriate to you as captive plaything manipulated by Death. It’s horrifying. I was happy to recall you had to escape in order to finish the poem. The Mexican Dia de los Muertos offers a good local color background for this contemporary danse macabre. One up-to-date detail is Death’s offer of no pain, just quiet bliss. In contrast, traditional prayers for the dying have a long final portion for The Agony.

    And in your last stanza, you depict the Agony of dancing to delight this thing foreseen but unwilled by supreme goodness. For my comparable movie, take “They Shoot Horses, Don’t They.” My senior class at college did a dance marathon based on it; fortunately, maintenance crews did not allow the event to go on for many hours, and watched carefully lest any student be overcome with exhaustion.

    Your form with five 11-line stanzas hints that you may know Dobson. He rhymed ababccddedE for five stanzas, with envoi ccddedE. Your scheme is more difficult in itself (aababcccddc) but easier because you change rhyme sounds in each stanza. It has the contemporary and topical appeal of looking more haphazard.

    You present many details of contradiction and caprice, perfectly symmetrical in Death’s final lines before he lets you go–until tomorrow.

    I hope not to threaten when I say I may come back tomorrow to talk about Juan Diego. I’ll notice now his surprise and change of speech mode at first seeing Our Lady. Then there’s increasing intimacy in calling her “Maria . . . who offers us her hand.” This is just one way the two poems in this post compair and contrast well. Misspelling intended.

    Reply
    • Julian D. Woodruff

      Margaret, thank you for these comments, especially for drawing in poetry and film in your response to these poems. I don’t know the Dobson (yet) and only got around to “Horses” a year or so ago. To me, death (lacking any charm or coyness) hangs over this movie. The bleak “yowza, yowza” refrain seems a realization of the predictive “mors stupebit.”

      Reply
    • Brian A Yapko

      Thank you so much for this appreciative comment, Margaret! The Medieval danse macabre is definitely a visual that I had in my head as I was writing this poem. In particular, I remember seeing a Black Death monument in Vienna which was uniquely creepy. But I wanted to turn the traditional scary description of Death on its head since my character, though frightening, has many ordinary peasant qualities — the unruly hair, the guitar, the carousing. This is not a version of Death that I found in Mexico, but I think my vision is compatible given what I know about the Dia de los Muertos and the idea of death having an intimacy and easy familiarity that many of us in the U.S. find utterly alien. You have very accurately noticed the contradictions in this character, the reasons for which I ultimately spell out in the final stanza. In some ways, this is personal to me. I have found death to be extremely capricious — sometimes terrifying, sometimes hoped for, but never a dull source of indifference.

      I am grateful for the introduction to Dobson who is completely unfamiliar to me. That our poetic forms ended up similar is quite a coincidence. I will undertake to read some of his work once I have a little bit more leisure time. But let me expand on your extremely astute analysis of my form. I chose to write this in stanzas of eleven lines because I wanted it to feel incomplete — perhaps even a big ragged. Twelve for me would have been the perfect number here, but not when there’s a “perhaps tomorrow” at the end. And I wanted a certain randomness to the rhymes. Your word of “haphazard” is exactly right. (In fact, break that word down to “hap” and “hazard” and it adds to the meaning here.) I wanted this to be “artistically haphazard”. I wanted the reader to feel as off-balance as the speaker and to be denied predictability. And yet I wanted the poem to rhyme because Death nonetheless is a serious subject despite the “carousing” and because the accumulation of rhymes (e.g. the c-c-c- rhymes), I hoped, would give the poem a vaguely dirge-like quality. Most of all, I hoped for the reader to feel a bit disoriented. As you notice: “details of contradiction and caprice.”

      Your invoking “They Shoot Horses Don’t They” is actually an amazing connection. I remember this film as extremely strange and sad, the dancing and the music barely disguising the sense the sense of emptiness that the competitors suffer. When facing such emptiness of life, death could really seem like a welcome visitor. I would never have considered this to be a modern version of the the danse macabre but, in the end, what else could it be?

      Reply
  7. Julian D. Woodruff

    These are both fine (as usual for you, Brian) and distinctive in subject. I have to admit, “Dia de los muertos” mystifies me, as does, differently, the increasingly elaborate and commercialized Hallowe’en. “There are no atheists in foxholes” is more comprehensible to me. So I’m grateful for your pairing your poetic observance with a celebration of Juan Diego. You might be the one to write a new poem for All Saints Day, totally swamped these days by those 2 other events. (So far, I’ve failed.)
    Death personified in music must have nearly as many examples as in the visual arts. Maybe Schubert, who died at 31, comes first to mind. The tarantella lies behind the best known examples: the Lied, written at 19, on Goethe’s “Erlking,” and the Lied “Death and the Maiden,” a dirge Schubert chose for the 2nd movement of his D minor String Quartet, with its tarantella finale, here ferocious, there sweet almost to cloying. This finale is echoed in the finales of the G major Quartet and the C minor Piano Sonata.

    Reply
    • Brian A. Yapko

      Thank you very much for this wonderful comment, Julian! I, too, was initially mystified by the Dia de los Muertos — at least as it is customarily observed in Mexico. It has a clearly macabre quality which ironically masks a joyousness and a sensitivity of remembrance for those who have died. But it was hard to get used to the elegantly dressed skeletons (called “Catrinas”) and the skulls graced with beautiful decorations and flowers (called “Calaveras.”) I now find them charming in an odd way. If one must confront death, better to do it with flowers, raucous tunes and tamales.

      Your mention of Schubert’s “Death and the Maiden” is most welcome, for I have never listened to it and now must do so! I love Classical Music but tend to limit my Schubert because I (perhaps unfairly) find him rather dour. The only Classical Music about death which I can identify with certainty would be the famous piece by Chopin which we now recognize as his funeral march, and Saint-Saens’ “Dance Macabre” which has a more rollicking, almost cinematic quality.

      I did not know that the tarantella was associated with death dances but now that you have brought it up it makes perfect sense. Am I correct in recalling that the tarantella dance originated as a way to help the dancer sweat out the poison of the tarantula bite?

      Reply
      • Julian D. Woodruff

        Brian, the D minor Quartet, masterpiece though it is, won’t change your assessment of Schubert. Try something like the “Trout” Quintet or the Third Symphony (which also ends with a tarantella!) if you want him in a happier vein. And you may have something, in connecting the dance with the spider; also, or alternatively, there’s the Gulf of Taranto …
        (BTW, Rachmanninoff, Liszt, and Mussorgsky might all wonder that I mentioned Schubert ahead of them.)

      • Joseph S. Salemi

        Brian, this story behind the tarantella is fictional, because the bite of the spider in question is generally harmless. The tarantella dance of southern Italian peasantry is more likely explained as being a cultural survival of Bacchanalian rituals in ancient Rome, which were suppressed and driven underground by a Senate decree. The wild dances were just a relic of the original Bacchic frenzy.

      • Brian A. Yapko

        Thank you for the additional information, Joe. Your history of the tarantella is actually even more fascinating than the tarantula myth!

  8. Margaret Coats

    Another literary danse macabre is “The Tarantula of Love” by Scottish poet William Fowler (1560-1612). It’s a sequence of 75 sonnets, and “tarantula” to Fowler means mainly the wild dance supposedly caused by a venomous spider bite. He clearly does not believe the spider bite caused death, and in fact he rarely refers to a spider, but does use venom as a metaphor for love causing erratic behavior in the lover (as spider bites occasionally do, but not for long). He says the venom of love is so strong that no other poison can affect him, although he would prefer death by poison to end his troubles, which only increase because of love.

    Fowler also explores eroticism and death in other collections, “A Sonnet-Sequence” of 16 poems and “Of Death,” with 9 lyrics that are not all sonnets. None of these were published in his own time.

    Reply
  9. Alena Casey

    Excellent poems again, Brian. I initially paused my reading of the first poem to scan the rhyme scheme (as you desired, it felt haphazard!), but then found myself drawn back into the poem. Your meter and rhyme felt so natural, with some excellent descriptions and fascinating topics. Both really enjoyable reads.

    Reply
    • Brian A. Yapko

      Thank you so much, Alena! I’m very pleased that you liked the two poems. I have an affinity for Mexico and so its culture and images really inspire me. I’m especially glad the haphazard rhyme-scheme didn’t throw you off. I realize it’s a risk making up a form like this. Sometimes it pays off, sometimes it doesn’t so I’m glad it worked for you.

      Reply
      • Alena Casey

        It was perfect. I almost always write in ABAB or ABCB, except when I write sonnets. This reminds me that I want to experiment more, because it can be quite effective.

  10. Gregory Ross

    Brian, as a fellow Catholic I love reading poetry about Saints, especially Our Lady of Guadalupe and San Juan Diego! Very inspirational!

    Reply
    • Brian A. Yapko

      Thank you very much, Gregory! Actually, I’m Episcopalian with a Jewish background (it’s complicated.) But I have long been Catholic-adjacent and I live (at least for another week) in New Mexico where Our Lady of Guadalupe is revered everywhere, including within the Episcopal churches here. In fact, the U.S.’s oldest shrine to Our Lady of Guadalupe is here in Santa Fe, built in the late 1700s when New Mexico was still part of Mexico. And San Juan Diego is essential to the story of Guadalupe. I too find the saints extremely inspirational!

      Reply

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