In many ways Iíve left behind the friends and loves
I cherished most, and yet as years go by the word
adios is bound to me with sounds of austral doves,
of unreal Patagonian skies, where a circling bird
swoops to snatch a creature fleeing in the brush;
of trails Tehuelche stalked in bygone days,
of nomad camps remote from noise and rush,
when armies hadnít sliced the steppes with railways
built to traffic guns, nor white man purged
the boundless plains of jaguars and Ůandues.
Now concrete dams and pylons emerge
on cactus lands, bones shed lucent hues
on tablelands swept dry by singing winds.
Thus memory is laced with images
of childhood pastures, as well as tender things
the mind will not let go despite the ravages
of time and loss. So to the present day I smile
to think of worlds I lost, of red horizons
receding in a cone of southern light, while
myths and spirits summon me from pantheons
of Patagonian lore. Yet in the mist of fading
thoughts that grip my heart, or force an odd grimace
to cling to phantom walls, I cannot bring alive the swaying
poplar trees, nor speak to you, nor touch your face.
"Patagonia Lost" has wonderful imagery, end rhymes, but also gorgeous internal rhymes. It is masterfully done, so much so, I had to go inside the poem upon reading it out loud a few times, to catch some of the subtle extra music. Consider: most/adios, guns/plains/concrete dams/cactus lands and a killer last line: "I cannot bring alive the swaying poplar trees, nor speak to you, nor touch your face." We have the pleasure of being in Chile without leaving the comfort of our chair. I do believe these careful word choices took some effort because of the added attention to half rhyme and rhyme; we benefit from the carefully observed memories. --Laurie Byro
Mis temas favoritos
The Lord replied, my precious, precious child, I love you and I would never leave you. During your times of trial and suffering, when you see only one set of footprints, it was then that I carried you.
"There is no life higher than the grasstops
Or the hearts of sheep, and the wind
Pours by like destiny, bending
Everything in one direction."
Sylvia Plath, Crossing the Water, Wuthering Heights.
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