Wednesday, January 31, 2007

Yessenia (A Wizard's Faithful Tale))Children of the Amuc)

Yessenia
(A Wizard’s Faithful Tale)) Children of the Amuc)

Done in Spontaneous Poetic Prose

(Prologue) The origin of the name ‘Yessenia´, can be linked to a variable of truths, we know the name to—perhaps to be—Spanish in origin, (but could also be Chinese); it’s also spelled Jessena, with a meaning “Palm Tree”; yet still it can be linked to Arabic also: meaning: Flower. In this story, “Yessenia…”you are about to read, there is a Peruvian link, and it links to the Amuc (the small people), and its underworld metropolis (and the mother of Yessenia: Florencia, whom perhaps named her Yessenia for special reasons, such as, she knew her daughter would have to be strong as a tree, and soft, with fragrance, as a flower to survive in her time, and world).
This is the second part, or sequel you could say to the famous, ‘Florencia’ (saga) that takes place beyond the Andes in the Mantaro Valley of Peru. But not in antiquity, as Yessenia lived and her mother, but in modern times; so be ready to go back into the crust of the earth, the tunnels and mines of the Mantaro Valley, where a portion of the Andes surround it like a mother cuddling her child.

Index of Characters

1—The Amuc (little people of mines of the sierras)
2—The Wizard (the narrator for the most part of the story)
3—Yessenia, (Queen, and daughter to Florencia)
4—The Gardner (the antagonist of the story)
5—The King (of the Eastern Kingdom)


Note: the story you are about to read was written in what the author calls, spontaneous poetic prose (similar to the way ‘Florencia,’ was written), which took two days); Yessenia was written in two hours, not to include two poems at the end, which the author did the following day. This is not the first time he has done this kind of writing, without pause, and at the very moment it comes to mind; much of his poetry is written on the spot, and stories likewise; it allows for a free flowing mine, and it seems to come out more genuine. It was thereafter corrected. With only the prologue added on 1-31-2007, and the change of the main characters name from Ariel to Aurea to what it is now, Yessenia; done on: 1-26-2007. Rosa Penaloza de Siluk
´


The Story

1

The old wizard (hunchback) sat back against a hard and wide root hanging like a string, like a thick python snake from the dome of the cave, from the upper part of the inner cave of the earth (the crust of the earth), perhaps this section being 400,000-square meters in circumference. Thence he started to tell his tale of tales among the Children of the Amuc, above them, the Mantaro Valley of Peru. Here he sat gazing into their eyes, a jug of wine by his side, said he (in his charming and witty, rustic voice):
“Listen well, my young Amucs,” (pouring down some wine from an animal skin (odre). Then he placed it back along his right leg, and started to huff and puff, as if the air was too hot and thin, and he could not get enough, and when he did, it was to hot to hold in his lungs, and the children chattered about, waiting and listening.
Next, after a moment had passed, the old wizard, white bearded with long stringy hair, moved his poncho out of his way, waiting to get the children‘s undivided attention—and noticed an old man, a Gardner with tools, a pick, rack and ax, and bag of sawdust, standing by the children—bending a tinge as if wanting to, and getting ready to, listen.
Sweet, with smiles were the children as they looked on, here and there, and back to the old Wizard, several of them, all anxious to hear the tale from this wanderer, this wizard-barb of sorts.
“My great, great—seven times over, grandfather’s wife was the maid to the Great Queen Florencia, of the 7th century, if I recall correctly, and I know you’ve all heard of her, but have you’ve heard of her daughter’s striking tale?”
All the children looked dumfounded, and one said, “No,” and all the rest nodded their heads.
The old Gardner closed arms, wide eyed, bent himself closer to the speaker, as the young Amucs—remained in a daze and disbelief of suspense, —said the Gardner, “Forgive me sire—wizard for sure, such a tale no one knows, only legend says she had a daughter, no more!”
“Ah, pardon me, old Gardner,” said his equal in age, “a lion you are like she, and should you doubt the truth before you hear me?”
“Then speak on,” said the old Gardner, breast out, lips tight, as if in unbelief. Then the old Wizard put his hat down for those who wished to drop a coin in it for him.
“Now listen closely, I will tell you the tale, faithful it is (the old Gardner smiled as if he knew something, but was tightlipped).”

The children now sat back against rocks, one another, and so forth and on, focusing their attention on the speaker; you could hear also—here and there— hear little Amuc groans (heavily), then the old wizard poured himself another wine, the children had never seen a man consume so much wine in such a short time. Next the wizard pulled out a danger, a relic of sorts, very pleasing to the eyes. This startled the children, and got their undivided attention, as if a monster lizard had stuck out its tongue, ready to grab them.
“My greet, great… Grandfather gave this to me, it is the king’s knife, the one he went for, but could not find, because his wife had hid it under the bed, Florencia that is, as her two assailants cut off his head.”
“Holy root!” said a voice among the children of the Amuc.
“The maid, my great, great…seven times over, grandfather’s wife, took it after all had left the bedchambers,” explained the Wizard.

“And what of it?” asked the Gardner, a haughty implication to his voice.
“It has special powers,” clarified the Wizard, taking a drink of the wine, adding, “it can made a duck into an eagle, or a Gardner into a toad!” he said laughingly, which triggered laughter into the children until all were laughing, all that is, except the embarrassed Gardner for making such a statement. The old Gardner now had a flatly look on his rosy face.
“Let your eyes,” said the Wizard,” be your best judges.
“Perhaps a curse is on that dagger,” implied the Gardner.
“Yes indeed, there is one,” replied he Wizard, and I shall now tell you the legend behind the dagger, the curse, and the Queen, Queen Yessenia.”

In the face and heart and eyes of the Gardner, if one could see, and if any one had paid attention, one would have seen: frustration, anger, pain, hurt, he was shamed, or was he, he knew there was a curse, how did he know, but no one thought to ask him, or gave him much attention at all. Thus, he murmured, “Let the children go to Hell with you Wizard,” but no one heard him, except one lad sitting on a root near by him.
“Let us hear more, old Wizard,” said the child Amuc sitting on the root.


2


“As the fable goes, that has more truth to it than myth, Yessenia, was now the princess of the Eastern Kingdom, as the young king had taken her as a child, and raised her, now fifteen-years of age (the king in his mid 20s), he married her, and she gave him a son. Thus, she became Queen
…she had a tender heart, and gave him, the king, her husband, her foster father of sorts, whom was ten-years her senior, here heart and soul you could say, but it was in a normal day, un-expectant, he said to her, out of the blue, “Be gone…” just like that, not a frown, smile or any expression on his face, flat as could be. He threw a sack of gold coins on a table a few feet past her, he tossed them, and so he didn’t have to get too close to her. “Be gone he said,” a second time, “before I kill you,” then he added to that, “hurry” he said, “before I change my mind and behead you here and now.” She didn’t even have time to think (but her mind was racing):

(In the background you can hear and see several folks walking by the so called countryside as it is considered in the underworld, which is not of course the same as the surface: here in the underworld it is much more: rocky, with rocky formations all about, dishevel or rumpled landscapes, and deep crevasses in the earth all about, liken to glaciers, that if one was to fall into one, hundreds of feet he’d fall.)






Yessenia’s Heart

Beware, when love seems too fair
Too charming to judge,
It shall come, too hard to bare.

The hidden heart does not speak
It just shreds—rips, tares, and creeps.





3

“Tell us more,” asked a voice from the Children of the Amuc. Several more children had gathered about the several that were already there, a few parents had stopped by, children in hand, all anxiously listening now (waiting for the next sequence of events), and the pretentious Gardner, commented: “Tell us more about that dagger!”
There was a long moment of silence, darkness had rippled the circled of folks. And then after a drink of wine, the Wizard started back up:
“She was looking at the King, as he was looking at her, not a word was said for the moment, he was her morning and night, now in her mind, deep in a tomb, black rage was settling in (somehow the king must had know this, a few of the by standing folks thought as they listened on)) perhaps her mother had transferred her flaming genes as well as her flowery ones to her daughter)) Yessenia’s heart was lifeless, quenchless.”
Now the Wizard pulled out the dagger for the second time to show the kids, the one the maid had taken and handed down as an abloom, from family to family, the one that was proclaimed to have a curse on it. This startled the children again, to the point of grabbing back their attention.
Continued the Wizard, now holding the dagger in his hands to express by showing, the moments emotion, that took place a thousand years previously “Soldiers came suddenly upon the Queen—alas, with the dagger of her deceased father, the very one that her mother had hid, that the maid had found, and given to the daughter, whom kept it in her room.) They cut her throat with it, but she did spit out a few last words before she died (the king in fear, she’d get revenge on him, he felt he had to act quickly, or face the same fate, her father did against her mother: thus, like to like, child and mother.) So as the Queen bled like a pig, her words were as follows: ‘I will not rest in my grave until revenge on your family has been taken.”’
The Gardner now withdrew from the assemblage; the children were hanging on to the story like white on rice, “Tell us more, what happened to the King.”
“It was an empty curse, just a tale,” responded the Wizard, putting down the dagger for a moment, to hold the wine skin over his head, so as to allow the wine to pour into his mouth. Then he heard a voice behind him.
“No,” said the Gardner, “it is a true tale, my great, great, Grandmother, told me of it, and that every seventh born son, was obligated to seek out the holder of the dagger, even if it takes a thousand years, and cast revenge on the holder of it; Yessenia’s son, was my great, great, seven times over, Grandfather.”
The old Wizard turned his head, and as he did, the Gardner plunged the dagger deep into the Wizard’s heart. And so it was.


4

After Word


Sometimes those that seem as innocent as young flowers, swim in a bath of dark shadows—if triggered it can lead to flames; that is to say, if you take all, and she gives all, expect to receive nothing less; she had only time to give burning death from her eyes of the betrayer, as it was in this case (the king gave the dagger back to the maid, he was cleaver enough to see perhaps what the Wizard did not, life after death has a strong pull). It is what triggers t he sleepless powers of pain in the lost world of death and love, inside of us, we all have triggers. Who dares to pay the price, the king in this case was cautious indeed, and he counted the cost, to him, not to others. And the Wizard wasn’t faithful of course to his on tale, such as life, in the real world.

Tuesday, January 30, 2007

Haiku for the Ruins at Unishcoto (Peru((and other poems))

Verses in Haiku and Other Forms

Ң

Haiku for the Ruins at Unishcoto

Its summer here
The Road to Unishcoto
Is just over there…

I walked her every inch
Like a fly caught in a web…!

#1651 1-31-2007


Haiku for Minnesota Winter

Its mid winter
I wonder how they’re doing
In Minnesota.

#1649


Old Poet

Close your gate old Poet,
You complain for solitude
Refuse Visitors.

#1650

My Poem

When my poem grows steadily
My tongue can taste it—
Thus, my poem is done!

“I try to make my poems as luminous and genuine as possible, where one can travel and thrive in them. They have steadily grown in Europe, Asia (where they are presently translating them; some in German, and other languages of East Europe), in South America (where hundreds are already translated), and North America along with Australia. I hope you enjoy them.” D.L. Siluk


Snapshot of Time

The sun is burning my neck.
The waiter walks by
Throwing images in color
That rush along my side.
A man is standing with his child
In front of the table across from me
The waiter is standing by.

For just a moment, a second,
I sense this is the center of life;
Voices and faces crisscross
Over, under and around me
(at this outside little café).

I’m sitting in the cool heat
(like a duck floating in space)
Like a man in a box (somewhere)
A snapshot of time and life spent
Never to return again—just moving.

Dedicated to El Parquecitos Café in Miraflores, Lima Perú, #1656 (1-32-2007)

Friday, January 19, 2007

Cultures of the Viru Valley

Cultures of the Viru Valley

A small area perhaps, with a big dent in the cultural field of Peru (a river valley leading out of the Andes to the Coast), perhaps dating back to 1050 BC, with several cultures coming out from the valley, or call them cultural shifts to AD 600, and beyond (I have spent some time in this area; as I have in most if not all, areas I write about).
From a period of agriculture (1050 BC) came, textiles and ceramics, and of course basket making.
The maize (corn) appeared on the northern coast with the Chavin cultures (such as in Trujillo)) south)); but we have in the Viru Valley the Salinar Culture which gave rise to the Moshe, which you can see remnants of at the archeological site in Chan Chan, amongst others (Chan Chan is worth the visit, and the folks are friendly, and the site is huge).
The detailed ceramics of the cultural inhabitants of the Viru valley, especially their soldiers, are quite impressive.
The Viru Valley is perhaps the oldest area where researchers have continued to study in Peru, from around the world. Sipan, which dates to AD 200-250, in comparison is far from the oldest civilization of the area, although the most famous, with its golden treasures to adorn the eye, and mystic black ceramics, to make one spellbound.
The Viru Cultures, are most ancient and interesting, and worth a look for the common eye; don’t let all the archeologists have all the fun. Machu Picchu is not the only place worthwhile seeing in Peru, perhaps the most crowded now. (Written in Lima, Peru 1/19/2007—dlsiluk))Article))

Sunday, January 14, 2007

Down the Old Inca Road (and two other Poems)

1)



Down the Old Inca Road
(Cajas)

The minute my hands
Touched the rocks
(of the Inca stone wall,
Upon the edge of the path)
Everything had changed:
The sun had come
Around and down
The Old Inca Road
(where I was now walking);
The air was warmer than before,
And I, I could smell the dirt;
Thereabouts, came sounds of nature
Steadily thundering into my
Eyes and soul…

The blue sky above me
And the Inca world beside me, and I, I
Walked down that cracked road
Along side its stonewall.

I had not been born when they had placed
The last stone to this wall—
When someone wedged in,
The tightly nit stones.


#1576 (12/19/2006





2)


Calicanto —Vita
(The Old Wanka Bridge of San Jeronimo)


Let beauty form its own heart
‘tis a perspective for the best
for ones true image is never pictured
on ones face—but rather in his trying past.

When I looked upon this ancient Wanka Bridge
Calicanto-Vita, no shadows to flatter her stones
Only a reminiscence, of long past battles.


12/12/2006 #1566


3)


The White Winged Butterfly


She comes around this White Winged Butterfly—
All day long: floats or flies on and within my air,
In my garden, in this Peruvian city, unescorted:
She has now, going on eight-weeks, done so—
(as if I didn’t notice or know).
How did she find mine, amongst so many?
Perhaps she smelled the greenery? Trying to
get away from the car fumes.
Or perhaps she found the sunshine, after
spotting my roses.
Whatever, its been eight-weeks now, I hate to
see her go (she put on a good show).


#1609 (1/14/2007); Dedicated to my wife Rosa

The Central Railroad of Peru (poem with commentary)

The Central Railroad of Peru


The most distinguished in the world
Engineering feat of land and steal
Perhaps was: the Central railroad of Peru?
Where it reached to heights of thirteen thousand feet
(Above sea level); to the city of Ticlio,
Then down to Bone City (La Oroya)
And on to Huancavelica:
One thousand miles of rail
Through mountains, over bridges,
Around zigzags, and up hills…!



#1580 (12/19/2006)



[Engineering of Poetry] In writing this poem, “The Central Railroad of Peru,” it came to mind what some folks are saying nowadays about poets and poetry, that is to say: some folks have said: poetry is like engineering, in that it has to be exact, its pulse, its mathematical genius, its hidden agenda; that under its shell are the real issues, the surface. These folks really mean, poetry needs accentual meter, or syllabic meter, I did that in my first book called, “The Other Door,” which was acclaimed in 1981, as a gifted book by much of the Midwest Press, in the United States. It also had that engineering kind of touch.

But what these gifted folks left out was common sense, in a world much lacking it. Poetry is basically focused on rhythm, meter and sound, and should have meaning and a voice of communication, one that demands effect. Involved with this is description and again, a narrative voice. Thus, poetry is much more than engineering ones way through the valley and through tunnels, and over bridges, it is figures of speech, interesting relations between reader and writer, examining traditional distinctions in culture, and showing the most basic language to its world of its intimacy. It has a voice, a theme (or should have), not just mathematics; it flows historically, and that is my kind of poetry, for this book: “The Road to Unishcoto”.

Historically if we look back to what poetry was originally concerned with, it will be auditory and visual, and cultural—from religious rituals to other functions. We have the old English barb (or Greek barbs that went from city to city to perform their cultural and historical plays in poetic form) manuscripts in monasteries showing verse showing Pagan and Christian customs, traditions, war, as in the Norman conquest (1166 AD); and the French culture was the culture that influenced Anglo-Norman poetry. Actually, rhyme didn’t appear in English poetry until this period.

Saturday, January 13, 2007

Three Poems for the Gate Keeper/one for Peru

The Eyes of Chucctolomos

On a Hill over looking a village called Quilcas in little stone rounded huts carved into stone walled pastures—thereof…here is where the Wanka lived, families, side by side: in the center stands a small stone structure, it stands alone, with eyes, nose and mouth (looking down the hillside)!

From inside, I stood, looking out (through its stone eyes)—out beyond the Mantaro Rio below, below and beyond the village that guards these stone ruins, out beyond its grassy meadows, to its residing mountains: then I felt it looking back at me, as if…if, my glance bounced off those residing mountains, to tell me: ‘…time was not real.’


Notes: The legend, the folks told me of, linked to this site that is, is as follows: whoever goes into these structures will soon die of an illness or disease. I found for myself, the spirits that guard this archeological site were more concerned with folks distorting the site, and disrupting their quietness. I didn’t get the feeling they wanted to curse anyone, perhaps that is mans choice. The site dates to about 700 AD.
















Three Poems for the Gate Keeper

1.

Just Visiting

The difference between
You and me
Is that I’m just visiting.

#1608 (1/12/2007)


2.

A Glance of Light

I grabbed a glance of light
Asked for faith and a year of life,
And somewhere in-between
Forgot to ask
For
Peace…
And tranquility.

#1606 (1/1220/07)



3.

Ship in a Bottle

Life has many surprises
Like a ship in a bottle
We often wonder how we got into
Such a spot…
World War III—will not be
Much Different.


#1607 (1-12-2007)

Friday, January 12, 2007

Four Poems from the Mantaro Vallley of Peru

1) The Old Sheep Hearder
(Cajas, Peru)) Mantaro Valley))


He roams the hillside, the old man—
Thin and bowed—arched like a tower
Donkey by his side:
Goats and sheep, leaping up the side of the hill
By the Old Inca Wall;

He roams the hillside, the old man—
Stops to talk to me
(It’s a way of life you see))
In the Mantaro Valley)).

Not sure if he likes strangers—
But he smiles nonetheless.
(His wool sweater tight against his thin chest.)
He looks up, up into the atmosphere, says
(As if measuring the slow moving air) says:
“Rain, it will rain late this afternoon!”
And right he is.

(It’s a way of life here you see))
In the Mantaro Valley; that’s all it is;
Roaming the hillside, donkey’s and all,
A few strangers, now and then,
And a tight sweater between
Him and the cool air.))



#1568 (12/13/2006)

Note: The old sheep headers, the ones that are left in the Mantaro Valley of Peru, bring their own food and water usually with them as they go daily up the hillsides with their sheep, and other animals (in this case, Cajas, a city of less than 10,000-inhabidents). I kind of think their days are fading; moderation is filling up their bellies nowadays (in the Valley, and nearby towns, such as Huancayo); I feel fortunate to be able to be one of the witnesses (perhaps one of the last, and one of the few who is writing this period down) to an end of an era; or, this old way of life that is, simple as it is, nonetheless, its nature will be buried with me I since.





2) A Dusty Day in Cajas
(Part One: the poem)

I couldn’t see clearly
down the old Inca Road—
in Cajas, (Huancayo) by the
old prison ruins—El Obraje,
(on Puna Mountain)
but I knew it was long—I
suppose.
Said I,
“There are perhaps old bones
or spirits at its end,”
the how or why of it all
who knows, the Spanish took
many prisoners back then.
Nonetheless,
I had to reach it (reach the end)
for the thrill of it, I
suppose:

and when I did
(did reach its end),
it was as I thought:
somber-grand
with so much unknown.



The Prison Cell
(Part Two)

(The Crescendo) I stood in those ancient prison cells where the Spanish incarcerated the rebellious Wanka and Inca populace of the Mantaro Valley (in the 1500s), and here is what I felt:

I was drifting into my own grave, descending, is more like it, into the upper bowels of the earth, into a past darkness that was so dense, it constricted my breathing. I stumbled a bit, from wall to wall; saw hard black eyes (they moaned)—.

The decay that took place among the living of its day, were huddled in darkness: they were to die here, and they knew it.



(11-30-06)) 1554 & 1557)) Dedicated to Mauro Rosales and Karina Rojas, who live in Cajas; for they took me on a Saturday morning and afternoon into its wondrous hillsides, in November of 2006; took me I say, trekking the mountain side (Puna Mountain, as they called it); we explored the Inca Road and old Wanka prison cells, along with the geological landscape.





3) The Wild Chicha
(Of the Mantaro Valley)) El Tambo))

The Wild Chicha—
At a years age, is old (so I am told)
But no one cares, nor really knows
(in the Mantaro Valley of Peru);
The inhabidents just drink it down:
From town to town, to town
(with their many, many fiestas)—
And it seems to me
At times (easing about)—
If I had one more Chicha drink
I’d be a roasted trout..!


Written while in El Tambo, Huancayo, at the El Caserio Café (1556 ((12-3-06)); dedicated to Joseito Arrieta, and his son Rey Enrique, whom had breakfast with my wife and I, and provided me with the background of the drink, Chicha; although I’ve had it twice myself.



4)

Godfather of the Haircut


There’s an old tradition
Called: Godfather
Of the cut hair…

I really didn’t believe it,
Until I was asked
To be a Godfather!

“What are my duties?” I asked,
Dreamily—
(Gazing, gawking on, dumfounded).

“Oh, to cut a lock of hair:
Here and there,” so they said…
(“from the child’s head…”).

((I wondered what then?))


I learned in Huancayo,
There are Godfathers
—for most any and everything;

I get the feeling,
The more Godfathers
The more spoiled the Child gets…

The child
Even asks for them nowadays
(at any old age).


Note: #1498 (11:43 PM). Inspired by Alfonso, a cab driver in Huancayo, and his grandson; being an American, or half Peruvian, since I am Married to one, some of these Wanka traditions are unusual to me (as with the Godfather of the Hair), but it is not my intentions to make fun of them, but to have fun with some of them, as I learn and enjoy the culture and customs of Peru, and the Mantaro Valley in particular.

Four Poems from the Mantaro Vallley of Peru

1) The Old Sheep Hearder
(Cajas, Peru)) Mantaro Valley))


He roams the hillside, the old man—
Thin and bowed—arched like a tower
Donkey by his side:
Goats and sheep, leaping up the side of the hill
By the Old Inca Wall;

He roams the hillside, the old man—
Stops to talk to me
(It’s a way of life you see))
In the Mantaro Valley)).

Not sure if he likes strangers—
But he smiles nonetheless.
(His wool sweater tight against his thin chest.)
He looks up, up into the atmosphere, says
(As if measuring the slow moving air) says:
“Rain, it will rain late this afternoon!”
And right he is.

(It’s a way of life here you see))
In the Mantaro Valley; that’s all it is;
Roaming the hillside, donkey’s and all,
A few strangers, now and then,
And a tight sweater between
Him and the cool air.))



#1568 (12/13/2006)

Note: The old sheep headers, the ones that are left in the Mantaro Valley of Peru, bring their own food and water usually with them as they go daily up the hillsides with their sheep, and other animals (in this case, Cajas, a city of less than 10,000-inhabidents). I kind of think their days are fading; moderation is filling up their bellies nowadays (in the Valley, and nearby towns, such as Huancayo); I feel fortunate to be able to be one of the witnesses (perhaps one of the last, and one of the few who is writing this period down) to an end of an era; or, this old way of life that is, simple as it is, nonetheless, its nature will be buried with me I since.





2) A Dusty Day in Cajas
(Part One: the poem)

I couldn’t see clearly
down the old Inca Road—
in Cajas, (Huancayo) by the
old prison ruins—El Obraje,
(on Puna Mountain)
but I knew it was long—I
suppose.
Said I,
“There are perhaps old bones
or spirits at its end,”
the how or why of it all
who knows, the Spanish took
many prisoners back then.
Nonetheless,
I had to reach it (reach the end)
for the thrill of it, I
suppose:

and when I did
(did reach its end),
it was as I thought:
somber-grand
with so much unknown.



The Prison Cell
(Part Two)

(The Crescendo) I stood in those ancient prison cells where the Spanish incarcerated the rebellious Wanka and Inca populace of the Mantaro Valley (in the 1500s), and here is what I felt:

I was drifting into my own grave, descending, is more like it, into the upper bowels of the earth, into a past darkness that was so dense, it constricted my breathing. I stumbled a bit, from wall to wall; saw hard black eyes (they moaned)—.

The decay that took place among the living of its day, were huddled in darkness: they were to die here, and they knew it.



(11-30-06)) 1554 & 1557)) Dedicated to Mauro Rosales and Karina Rojas, who live in Cajas; for they took me on a Saturday morning and afternoon into its wondrous hillsides, in November of 2006; took me I say, trekking the mountain side (Puna Mountain, as they called it); we explored the Inca Road and old Wanka prison cells, along with the geological landscape.





3) The Wild Chicha
(Of the Mantaro Valley)) El Tambo))

The Wild Chicha—
At a years age, is old (so I am told)
But no one cares, nor really knows
(in the Mantaro Valley of Peru);
The inhabidents just drink it down:
From town to town, to town
(with their many, many fiestas)—
And it seems to me
At times (easing about)—
If I had one more Chicha drink
I’d be a roasted trout..!


Written while in El Tambo, Huancayo, at the El Caserio Café (1556 ((12-3-06)); dedicated to Joseito Arrieta, and his son Rey Enrique, whom had breakfast with my wife and I, and provided me with the background of the drink, Chicha; although I’ve had it twice myself.



4)

Godfather of the Haircut


There’s an old tradition
Called: Godfather
Of the cut hair…

I really didn’t believe it,
Until I was asked
To be a Godfather!

“What are my duties?” I asked,
Dreamily—
(Gazing, gawking on, dumfounded).

“Oh, to cut a lock of hair:
Here and there,” so they said…
(“from the child’s head…”).

((I wondered what then?))


I learned in Huancayo,
There are Godfathers
—for most any and everything;

I get the feeling,
The more Godfathers
The more spoiled the Child gets…

The child
Even asks for them nowadays
(at any old age).


Note: #1498 (11:43 PM). Inspired by Alfonso, a cab driver in Huancayo, and his grandson; being an American, or half Peruvian, since I am Married to one, some of these Wanka traditions are unusual to me (as with the Godfather of the Hair), but it is not my intentions to make fun of them, but to have fun with some of them, as I learn and enjoy the culture and customs of Peru, and the Mantaro Valley in particular.

Thursday, January 11, 2007

A Brief Overview of the Historical Wanka (from the Mantaro Valley of Peru)

A Brief Overview of the Historical Wanka
(And Introduction)


The Wanka culture is rich in the Mantaro Valley of Peru, and perhaps we could start any corner in the Valley and present a good history, and come out with the Kingdom of Wanka at the end, and provide a good history at that. So let’s start right from the beginning, 10,000 BC, known as the Litico Period. Here we find Archeological sites called Callavallauri, and here we find nomads and hunters for the most part.
From there we can shift to the Arcaico Period, or 4000 BC. A time when agriculture appeared in the Valley, and throughout; here we can find ruins called Chanchas Puquio (Huancan0.
Now we shift another 2000-years down the timeline, a period of the Ceramic, along with the growing of corn, and an archeological site nearby. The nearby Andean city is called: Conception (Junin).
Now we take a big leap, to 600-1460 AD, the Medium to Late Horizon periods; this is really the Wanka Period at its brightest. A time for breeding stock, agriculture, more villages, and of course war (the Huari)
The Huari Empire in the Mantaro Valley connected with one another, that is, the valley consolidated for the most part. The Huari disappeared and was replaced with the Wanka Kingdom about 1000 AD, although everything was somewhat really interconnected prior to this.

Now we must go to about 1200 AD, the Wanka development is well on its way, I shall call it its middle glory: here we see Jauja, San Jeronimo, Sicaya, Chorgos Bajo connect with one another.
The Capital of the empire was Tunanmarca and the Huari culture, perhaps between 500-900 AD. After their influence disappeared, the Wanka got more independent and adopted what may be considered the God of the Wanka’s. Huallallo Carhu (The Great Wanka Warrior who became God of the Wanka). He was punished by Pariacaca, and made to eat dogs for his last defeat. It has been said; the God of the Wanka’s ate a people. Really was not that uncommon back then for that environment; and to repeat myself, He was to eat dogs for penitence.

Friday, January 05, 2007

Ode to: La Dama De Cao (A Poem)

Ode to: La Dama De Cao
(The Lady of Cao))Peru))

The sun no longer strikes down on me
How close I was to life, how hard life was
How false ones gaiety can be.

Lonely at times:
Not in the soul
But in the sky of the mind!

My whole horizon ringed
With the morning birds;
I had a collection of things and people.


I have been a Queen, ruled the village of Cao
That was my love you see
Yet I did not live long—, twenty-five years is all.

Queen-chief they called me—,
My body tattooed to show such;
Bound in ceremonial wrappings…

Like a cocoon (a mummy)
Hence,
I was found in such garb.

Sorry to say, but I will:
I died from childbirth—
Buried in Trujillo—a thousand years ago!.


When I died…, then awake
It was like daybreak—I seemed to have
Had a sad feeling upon arrival.

Now harshly, all the sounds and voices
Of one moment to the next
Is simply fleeting.

Yet, up there I will never be again:
Still I hear my child’s voice
From time to time..!

Note: No: 1596 (1-4-2007): a most recent finding in Peru (that is, perhaps less than a year old) is the Mummified body of “La Dama de Cao, (The Lady of Cao)”; whom was really more than a lady, but a queen. As I have said often, and will again, Peru is the land of discover, perhaps the last of the main Ancient lands to have been only half discovered. It is the Egypt of South America you could say. I was in Trujillo, some three years ago, a northern costal region of Peru, where they have funny looking boats called Canotaje´s. I don’t know of any another land that bares so much fruit in Ancient discovers today, other than Peru.