Notes About The Poem
There's enough material in the legend of the China Poblana to make at least a movie, if not a mini-series. I'm surprised Hollywood hasn't picked up on the story. This poem covers only a small part. She was revered almost as a saint in Mexico before the Inquisition put the kibosh on it.
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The Tomb of the China Poblana
Jarabe tapatío in Plaza Castillo,
girls dance in the Mexican night.
The floral bouquets of their dresses ablaze,
a rainbow of colors so bright
But it wasn't this way, far back in the day
when dances held little such drama.
So stay for a spell and you'll hear the tale
of the lovely China Poblana.
This Rajputi princess delighted the senses,
so flawless in every way.
In sari and shawl, just thirteen and small,
she strolled by the seaside one day.
She could never forget, her biggest regret
that morning when she was taken
by pirates abducted, escaped but corrupted,
and then by her betrothed forsaken.
Sad and contrite, Mirra fled in the night
where a mission took her in care.
With dear Father Xavier, she accepted our Savior
and passed all her evenings in prayer.
But it happened for naught, for again she was caught
by the Portuguese pirates once more.
And despite being brave was sold as a slave,
in Manila to serve as a whore
No one could tell her of the fate that befell her
or know that her tears were in vain.
As the captain who bought her, saw in Mirra a daughter
for his childless friends in New Spain.
On the trip she was clad disguised as a lad
to hide from the sailors' desire.
But when she arrived, her silks were revived
and she was dressed in her finest attire.
In sari and shawl, this exotic doll
made a stir in Puebla that day.
Women were gawking, and couldn't stop talking
of her Indian garments so gay.
She started a fashion, to this day still a passion
of Mexican feasts and folklore.
For the dresses they wear to dance on the square
are based on the garments she wore.
And the name of the dress, you won't have to guess
and you won't have to wait till mañana.
'Tis the self-same as her little nickname.
They call it the China Poblana.
They'll tell you forthwith of mysteries and myth
and the pious beautiful maiden.
In holy nirvana she saw Christ and Madonna.
'Twas the burden with which she was laden.
The charros are dashing, the sequins are flashing,
in Puebla they dance on the square.
In each tap and each twirl, trips a Rajputi girl
but of this they are scarcely aware.
And nearby in the temple, serene, white, and simple,
in the sacristy, near a Madonna,
flowers are laid for the Indian maid
at the tomb of the China Poblana.
N.B - In colonial Mexico a "chino or china" was any person from the orient.
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