PICNIC BY LIMAY
My father swerves our old Ford
off the pebbled highway.
We kids sway in back of the truck,
excited knuckles clasped at handrail.
Clouds of dust spiral up,
solid and possessive as the brown steppes.
Noonday squints, unforgiving,
through earthy glare.
Identical thorn-bushes
lend prickly shade to the roadside;
a martinette whistles in solitary flight
over low vegetation. The landscape is flat,
not revealing anything of moment.
Neither does the sky. Birds don’t sing.
An empty world breathes soil and light
as we bounce over unlikely tracks.
Limpid river, snaking out of nowhere,
hums nostalgic airs from its source in Nahuel Huapi.
Limay pipes softly of The Enchanted Valley*,
of white waters hailing majestic rocks
shaped like breasts and phalluses.
Eons ago, they were sculptured by Mapuche gods.
Fertility chants to Mother Rock and Father Sky,
fluttering over Limay’s sacred waters.
Pehuén offers shade for the Ford.
We jump out and run to water’s edge,
already in swimsuits. My mother’s
is somebody’s castoff navy-blue Jansen.
She’s milky white, timid;
plump legs dimple beautifully.
Mine is elasticized flowery cotton,
two sizes big. It flaps wetly on my chest.
Water is crazily cold under desert sun.
...splash splash splash...
Later, it’s tinned paste sandwiches,
boiled eggs and apples, crouching
under wild broom-flowers. Sunburn.
My father bundles us into hot Ford
for drive home on rutted highway.
Sweat and grime form runnels on our skin.
Next summer we’ll go back, says my father,
drinking black beer in our scented garden.
By Psyche
Limay = river in Patagonia. Means limpid, white, in Mapuche language.
Nahuel Huapi = Jaguar Island, in Mapuche. Now is name of a lake.
The Enchanted Valley = Where Limay river cuts thru' high rocks with fantastic shapes.
Mapuche = Earth People.
Pehuén = Araucaria, similar to Monkey Puzzle Tree.
From Patagonia Lost, Copyright Sylvia Maclagan, Buenos Aires, Argentina, 2005.
Hi Sylvia
You have captured so well your childhood memory of a family outing. Reading it, gives a sense of warmth, time spent together enjoying spending time together, a time when life was simpler and fun was splashing around in the river in beautiful countryside.
To me your story reads more like prose than poetry and I think it would be interesting written as a short story, perhaps filling in some more details.
Thanks for this lovely trip down memory lane.
Nina
Psyche,
I agree totally with nina. Also, I loved reading this, and felt very much like i was there. Wonderful job, and excellent images you paint.
Nick
Hi Sylvia,
Is your Patagonian collection now published? (Looking at the copyright below your poem) :cheer:
If so, my suggestions are completely irrelevent. Anyway, as usual, they may be of interest, but disregard if they distract from your intentions.
I love this description of the scenery and your day out as a child; very evocative.
Suggestions: [add] {remove}
PICNIC BY LIMAY
My father swerves our old Ford
off the pebbled highway. --- metalled ? (or was it rocky, too?)
We kids sway in back of the truck,
excited knuckles clasped at handrail.
Clouds of dust curl {around us}, --- use 'us' a lot
solid and possessive as the brown steppes.
Noonday squints at us, unforgiving,
through earthy glare. Identical thorn-bushes
lend prickly shade to the roadside;
a martinette whistles in solitary flight
over low vegetation. The landscape is flat,
doesn’t reveal anything of moment. --- revealing nothing ... ?
Neither does the sky. Birds don’t sing.
An empty world breathes soil and light{ on us}. --- lovely line!
We bounce over unlikely tracks.
Limpid river, snaking {towards us}
out of nowhere, hums nostalgic
airs from its source in Nahuel Huapi.
Limay pipes softly of The Enchanted Valley*,
of white waters hailing majestic rocks
shaped like breasts and phalluses.
Eons ago, they were sculptured by Mapuche gods.
Fertility chants to Mother Rock and Father Sky,
fluttering over Limay’s sacred waters. --- lovely history
Pehuén offers shade for the Ford.
We jump out and run to water’s edge,
already in {our} swimsuits. My mother’s
is somebody’s castoff navy-blue Jansen.
She’s milky white, [timid, ]her plump legs
dimple beautifully. {She looks timid.}
Mine is elasticized flowery cotton,
two sizes big. I feel awkward
around my chest {area}.
Water is crazily cold under desert sun.
...splash splash splash...
Later, it’s tinned paste sandwiches,
boiled eggs and apples, crouching
under wild broom-flowers. Sunburn.
My father bundles us into hot Ford
for drive home on rutted highway.
Sweat and grime form runnels on our skin.
Next year we’ll go back, says my father,
drinking black beer in our scented garden.
Limay = river in Patagonia. Means limpid, white, in Mapuche language.
Nahuel Huapi = Jaguar Island, in Mapuche. Now is name of a lake.
The Enchanted Valley = Where Limay river cuts thru' high rocks with fantastic shapes.
Mapuche = Earth People.
Pehuén = Araucaria, similar to Monkey Puzzle Tree.
We have cryptic crosswords set by 'Araucaria' in England. :cool:
Hugs,
Fran
What a wonderful journey Sylvia!
I've enjoyed this one and will be back again soon to offer some deeper comments.
Cheers!
~Cleo
Hello Sylvia,
A truly wonderful journey in the back of your Dad's pick up truck, I can feel that dust in my eyes and hair, and the heat of the metal!
You always take us to a special place on a journey of discovery.
This rolled along beautifully for me and the ending was perfect.
Only one part threw me slightly. The second half of the second stanza seemed to take on a very grown-up point of view
....hailing majestic rocks
shaped like breasts and phalluses.
Eons ago, they were sculptured by Mapuche gods.
Fertility chants to Mother Rock and Father Sky,
fluttering over Limay’s sacred waters.
This seemed to clash slightly with the innocence of a younger child bound for a great adventure of a picnic and swim.
Nevertheless, your language is wonderful and the style all your own.
P.S What is a martinette? Can't find it anywhere.
Hi Fran !
I am MOST grateful for your indications. You've pinpointed the exact words that are dispensable in this piece of mine.
I have edited my Picnic, removing most of the "us's", as you so rightly suggested. I also removed and/or switched some words according to your comments. Right on !!
I believe it has improved considerably thanks to your help. :pharoah2
Do please forgive my delay in answering people's comments. Last week hubby was quite ill, I'm still coping with several issues to do with his health.
Coming to MM is a great distraction from one's daily problems !! :laugh:
Thank you again for your invaluable assistance,
hugs,
Sylvia :turtle:
Hello Grace ! :sun:
I've been AWOL from MM, please forgive (Carlos has been ill, I'm still trying to cope... ).
Love to come here and view people's poems & comments, but can't seem to manage Flashes AND answering or posting more stuff... Shock
Only one part threw me slightly. The second half of the second stanza seemed to take on a very grown-up point of view
....hailing majestic rocks
shaped like breasts and phalluses.
Eons ago, they were sculptured by Mapuche gods.
Fertility chants to Mother Rock and Father Sky,
fluttering over Limay’s sacred waters.
You've made an interesting point here, Grace. I shall have to re-consider this part. My only justification can be that it's written long after the event (prefer not to say HOW long... :p ), dear me !! Meaning that I didn't think about the erotic shapes of the rocks back then, at least I hope not !!
BTW, that section of the Limay River really is magnificent, the rocks have the most incredible formations. It's several kilometres long and the highway clings to the sides of mountains, borders precipices, it's thrilling. When I was a child, the road was terribly dangerous, not even paved.
Which reminds, I'll answer Fran's question here. The roads were really pebbled when I was a child. They were actually constructed of small, loose pebbles, rather like some British & French beaches. The pebbles often flew up and smashed our windshield, which was not re-inforced in those days, could shatter quite easily... Shock Our vehicles, often jeeps, used to swerve over the pebbles, skidding around, and eventually the wheels made deep ruts which one had to drive along. Occasionally, one would meet another vehicle coming in the opposite direction, and it was quite a problem deciding who was to abandon the marked ruts in the road to let the other vehicle pass... All in the middle of nothing..... Shock
A martinette is a species of heron. I'm sure I saw it written like this somewhere, but I've forgotten where. Perhaps it's French... :detective: Will do some checking, thank you, Grace.
Yes, I like my poems to be a sort of journey or story. Do me best !! :cool:
Love,
Sylvia :turtle:
Hi Sylvia!
I enjoyed your picnic again and this time, I didn't get a sunburn!
I enjoyed this scenery and the voice you chose to use to narrate the picnic.
Well done! I love these poems in your Patagonia collection!
Here are some ideas for you to ponder. {delete} [add]
I also re-arranged the stanzas to give the stronger scenes/points couplets of their own.....
HUGS
~Cleo
My father swerves our old Ford
off the pebbled highway.
We kids sway in back of the truck,
excited knuckles clasped at handrail.
Clouds of dust spiral up,
solid and possessive as the brown steppes.
Noonday squints, unforgiving,
through earthy glare.
{Identical} [Like] thorn-bushes
lend prickly shade to the roadside;
a martinette whistles in solitary flight
over low vegetation. The landscape is flat,
{doesn’t} [not] reveal[ing] anything of [the] moment.
Neither does the sky. Birds don’t sing.
An empty world breathes soil and light {on us} [as] {.}
we bounce over {unlikely} [unusual] tracks.
Limpid river, snaking out of nowhere,
hums nostalgic airs from its source in Nahuel Huapi.
Limay pipes softly of The Enchanted Valley*,
of white waters hailing majestic rocks
shaped like breasts and phalluses.
Eons ago, they were sculptured by Mapuche gods.
Fertility chants to Mother Rock and Father Sky,
fluttering over Limay’s sacred waters.
Pehuén offers shade for the Ford.
We jump out and run to water’s edge,
already in swimsuits. My mother’s
is {somebody’s} [someone's] castoff navy-blue Jansen.
She’s milky white, timid{,} [; her]
plump legs dimpling beautifully.
Mine is elasticized flowery cotton,
two sizes big. I[t] feel[s] awkward
{around} [covering] my chest.
Water is crazily cold under desert sun.
...splash splash splash...
Later, it’s tinned paste sandwiches,
boiled eggs and apples, crouching
under wild broom-flowers. Sunburn.
My father bundles us into hot Ford
for drive home on rutted highway.
Sweat and grime form runnels on our skin.
Next year we’ll go back, says my father,
drinking black beer in our scented garden.
G'mornin' Cleo !! :sun:
Thank you so much for joining the picnic :cloud9:
I've introduced several changes, thanks to your suggestions.
I especially appreciate the stanza breaks. I tend to forget about breaks, thanks a lot for pointing that out :pharoah2
I followed most of your advice, I learn such a lot from all you people !! :cool:
I've left "doesn't reveal anything of moment", because I believe "of moment" means "of importance", in this context. (Grace didn't object to that.... and I have enormous faith in her judgement... :) , so it's staying unless you ALL sit on me and tell me it must go.... :jester: )
Just one other thing I left as it is, but must rush off now, duty calls, calls, calls....
Hugs & many thanks, Cleo,
Sylvia :turtle:
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