Lisbeth Coiman
January 2022
Lisbeth Coiman is a poet, educator, and cultural worker born in Venezuela. She received a BA in Modern Languages from Universidad Metropolitana, Caracas, and a Master of Education from Northwestern Oklahoma State University. Coiman’s wanderlust spirit landed her to three countries---from her birthplace to Canada, and finally the USA, where she self-published her first book, I Asked the Blue Heron: A Memoir (2017). Her poetry and personal essays are featured in the online publications and in several anthologies in print. She dedicated her bilingual poetry collection, Uprising / Alzamiento (Finishing Line Press, 2021) to the freedom of her homeland Venezuela. An avid hiker, and teacher of English as a Second Language, Coiman lives in Los Angeles, CA. For contact information, visit https://lisbethcoiman.com
PARCHITA / PASSION POETRY
To all those forever condemned to a life of tasteless fruits
Apples that can only adorn a pig’s mouth
or be thrown at a doctor’s head
Needy of spices for a semblance of flavor in a pie
Pears unworthy of my taste buds
unless bathed in hot syrup with the aromatic clove in it
Strawberries seasoned with the sweat of
undocumented labor in California’s fields
To those who have never enjoyed the heat of the tropics
I offer my hand
pregnant with the perfume of
a tropical vine growing wild in my homeland
Parchita daffodil-yellow and oval the size of a duck’s egg
withered in appearance when ripe
Cut in two it releases a
a cornucopia of flavors citrusy and tart
Scoop a teaspoonful of its
slimy bright orange pulp entangled with abundant black seeds
Pour aged rum distilled burnt sugar
into the Sweet Cup will make a sibar of you
Blended and drained the Granadilla juice will refresh a worker in a hot afternoon
Add it to cream to make the most exquisite of desserts Mousse de Parchita
a longing that haunts my dreams
bittersweet like a lover saying goodbye after a night of vibrant sex
creamy yellow in the center soft like clouds in September
Take it between your hands bring it to your lips
Be delighted with the way it tantalizes your taste buds
the explosion of colors sparking in your mouth
Caribbean Sea
canopy of the jungle in Canaima
snow of the Andes
pasture of Los Llanos
soil of Barlovento
south slope of El Avila in April
sun over my head at high noon
Drink from its shell
A supernova of aromas will wrap itself around your hands your mouth
even your breast where it will drop its desirable viscosity
intoxicating like the smell of cocoa beans freshly harvested
reassuring like the scent of coffee at four am
earthy moist cloud rising from the hot soil of the gardens after a sudden shower in May
interrupting the afternoon impromptu baseball games in the neighborhood
iodized salty foam of the waves softly eroding the sandcastles of my childhood
essence of the homeland I can’t return to
García Marquez’ guava got nothing on the smell of my parchita
Take my hand so the curly sprouts of the exuberant passiflora lilikoi
wondrous flower can lace themself around your fingers
until you too can offer the fragrance of this magnificent creation
to all those forever condemned to a life of tasteless fruits
EL GUAIRE
“You’ll drink water from El Guaire”
Hugo Chavez Frías, 2006
Before I was born
A pristine future
streamed down from El Ávila tributaries
Into El Guaire
Families lounged on its shores
Boats sailing southeast
pastoral landscape
Of a small un-barreled city
Pride for
First constant source of energy
In the subcontinent
Unplanned growth and expansion
Of a 167 square-mile city lacking sanitation
Applause for canals draining sewage into the river
prone to flooding
the beginning of entropy
turn to gestures of disgust
oil boom of the 70s
caraqueños cover hills
asphyxiating crowd & stagnated traffic
El Guaire converted into a torrent
of human and industrial waste
Late Jurassic rocks
only reminders of the river’s splendor
Who needed clean water?
oil revenues a constant flow down the street
Infrastructure projects
Celebrated with cocktails
of corrupt allocations and nepotism
He who drank the blood of tigers
in the gardens of the presidential palace
To secure passage into eternity
Promised to clean the sewage
return it to its pristine past
And the red seals clapped
Vulnerable protesters jumped into El Guaire
to escape tear gas
The promise has been delivered
People are bathing in El Guaire
On social media
Only reliable news
from my dystopian homeland
El Guaire miners go underwater
to recover discarded metals
to trade for food
Hundreds of citizens slide down the sewage
carrying plastic containers
To quench their thirst
With the waste of a country gone awry