(Sestina) For the Mantaro Valley of Peru--Jatunmayo Valley

(Sestina):
For the Valley of Mantaro
(Jatunmayo Valley)

The Valley’s disclosure of blossoming has come
from ancient mountains gorgeous with Spring.
Ringing, my body’s a-dancing today, and in my mind
kind winds unfold. A desire for the remote far winds….
Fading I see rainbow’s pedestal, a burning sapphire,
stones like opals, cover the mountains’ sunsets.

Is this home of Thine the last? If so it is the best!
As if an only daughter, she is nowise fair.
‘Tis but a path, the last; hast thou, I take her road.


Here in the valley, comes sprouts and dust from kings,
kings: breathless wonderment, immemorial beauty—;
between the sunsets and the solitudes, an eternal splendor!
Beauty’s never long asleep—it is thy guarded friend!
Strange and dreamy are the stars thou followest.
Strange and dreamy, are the stars over thy Valley.

Is this home of Thine the last? If so it is the best!
As if an only daughter, she is nowise fair.
‘Tis but a path, the last; hast thou, I take her road.


I saw the condor: in the valley, but a few nights past,
fast she flew, spilt into music, her winds of darkness;
dreaming things I hath not known, I stood alone,
the moon hath set to mutiny, inside these old white bones,
so their silence passed my world, tenderly, ye I stood
strange, oh tender enchanted thoughts—enchanted me!

Is this home of Thine the last? If so it is the best!
As if an only daughter, she is nowise fair.
‘Tis but a path, the last; hast thou, I take her road.


Speaketh, for I wish to hear thy silver voice, moonlit.
Moonlight clear, mystical, within my farthest dream,
yet, in Thine eyes I see far tears! And I hear thou sayeth:
‘I am spirit, ye but flesh, listen thou, what sayeth thee
I say to ye: what have you done to my mountains?
and my stream? Behold, it is now but a shameful flow’r.’

Is this home of Thine the last? If so it is the best!
But I could not speaketh to the silver voice, moonlit,
her marvel, phenomenon, in her a farthest dream.


She cometh, no longer silent, yet fragrance to thy heart,
what wouldst thou have me say? ‘All is fine from thy throne!’
Ah nay! Ah nay! I sayeth to thee, ye eyes are part of Paradise!
Ah yea! O goddess, alter-flame of the world, do not despair
blinding sight has caused thy heart to ache and rain,
yet your stars return to thee, your beauty, scarce it be.

Is this home of Thine the last? If so it is the best!
My heart is lost into the central valley of her delight,
O thou relentless satiety, pass the ramparts of my soul.


And she spoke to me again, with her silver moonlit voice,
‘Cometh forth with me, O prince!’ she said, ‘for far adventures wait.
Thy heart is warmer than the light, drowned in contentment,
go, and do not abandon me, ye footsteps I will see,
tell Christ you cannot leave, cling onto my arms, please!’
She is something beyond, far beyond, these human hours.

Here in the valley, comes sprouts and dust from kings
yet, in Thine eyes I see far tears! And I hear thee sayeth:
‘…tell Christ ye cannot leave, cling onto my arms, please!’


Note: in a Sestina, one often can feel (if done correctly) the creation of a rolling musical effect, almost like rolling down a hill, or mountain into a valley, which this was the effect I chose, and tried to produce in this poem. No: 1931 8-8-2007.




Spanish Version

(Sestina):
Para el Valle del Mantaro

El florecimiento del Valle se ha manifestado viniendo
desde magníficas montañas antiguas con la Primavera.
Tatareando, mi cuerpo es un baile hoy, y en mi mente
vientos suaves se revelan. Un deseo por los remotos vientos lejanos…
Decolorándose veo el pedestal del arco iris, un zafiro ardiente,
piedras como ópalos, cubren las puestas del sol de las montañas.

¿Es este mi último hogar? Si es ¡es lo mejor!
Como un hijo único, este es bello de todas formas.
‘Este es sólo un camino, el último; ¿lo tomas?, yo tomo su camino.



Aquí en el valle, vienen brotes y polvo de reyes,
reyes: admiración sin aliento, belleza inmemorial—;
¡entre las puestas del sol y las soledades, un esplendor eterno!
¡La belleza nunca extraña dormir—este es tu amigo cauteloso!
Extrañas y soñadoras son las estrellas que seguiste
Extrañas y soñadoras, son las estrellas sobre tu Valle.

¿Es este mi último hogar? Si es ¡es lo mejor!
Como un hijo único, este es bello de todas formas.
‘Este es sólo un camino, el último; ¿lo tomas?, yo tomo su camino.



He visto al cóndor: en el valle, sólo unas noches atrás,
rápido él voló, rezumado en música, sus alas de oscuridad;
cosas soñadoras yo no conocía, estuve solo,
la luna preparó el motín, dentro de estos viejos huesos blancos,
para que sus silencios pasaran mi mundo, tiernamente,

sí estuve extraño, oh suaves pensamientos encantados—me encantaron!

¿Es este mi último hogar? Si es ¡es lo mejor!
Como un hijo único, este es bello de todas formas.
‘Este es sólo un camino, el último; ¿lo tomas?, yo tomo su camino.



Habla, ya que deseo oír tu voz de plata, iluminada por la luna.
Clara luz de luna, mística, dentro de mi más lejano sueño
todavía, ¡en mis ojos veo lágrimas lejanas! Y te oigo decir:
'Soy espíritu, tú sólo carne, escuchándote decir, qué dices,
yo te digo, qué has hecho a mis montañas
y mi riachuelo, porque ahora es sólo una flor vergonzosa’.

¿Es este mi último hogar? Si es ¡es lo mejor!
Pero no podría hablar a la voz de plata, iluminada por la luna,
su maravilla, fenómeno, en su más lejano sueño.



Ella viene, nunca más silenciosa, aun la fragancia al corazón,
¿qué me harías decir? ¡Todo está bien desde tu trono!
¡Ah no! ¡Ah no! ¡Te digo a ti, tus ojos son parte del Paraíso!
¡Ah sí! O diosa, pira-altar del mundo, no te desesperes
la vista cegadora ha causado a tu corazón dolor y lluvia
aunque tus estrellas retornan a ti, tu belleza, escasa es.

¿Es este mi último hogar? Si es ¡es lo mejor!
Mi corazón está perdido en el valle central de su placer,
O tú, saciedad implacable, pasas las murallas de mi alma.



Y ella me habló otra vez, con su plateada voz iluminada por la luna,

'Ven adelante conmigo, ¡O príncipe!’ ella dijo, 'por aventuras lejanas espera.
Tu corazón es más caliente que la luz, ahogada en la felicidad,
ve, y no me abandones, tus pasos yo veré,
dile a Cristo que no puedes irte, agárrate de mis brazos, ¡por favor!’
Ella es algo asombroso, mucho más allá, que estas horas humanas.

Aquí en el valle, vienen brotes y polvo de reyes,
todavía, ¡en mis ojos veo lágrimas lejanas! Y te oigo decir:
'¡…dile a Cristo que no puedes irte, agárrate de mis brazos, por favor!’



Nota: En una Sestina, uno a menudo puede sentir (si es hecha correctamente) la creación de un efecto rodante musical, casi como rodando por una colina o montaña en un valle, efecto que escogí y traté de producir en este poema.

# 1931 8-Agosto-2007.

Two Poems for Peru: An Old Adobe House in Acolla and A Love Poem for Huancayo

An Old Adobe House in Acolla

(An forenoon in Acolla.)

What is so strange about an old adobe house in the middle of a city?
It is thick bricks of mud. I walk around and around them.
The mind is strangely torn, and cannot leave them.
At last I rest, lean back against one.

It is a small corner adobe house, across from the Plaza de Arms.
Its old windows and bricks surround me, enmesh me,
Brown bricks, with pale green chipped wooden doors and windows.
Only the sounds of brass horns from the church distract me.

The sun is chilled, trying to burn through an opening in the sky.
The plaza area, its surrounding streets are being renovated.
Why then do I care to watch…
The sun moving onto the chilled bricks of the adobe house?

The morning shall never end, I think:
I have eyes it seems only born for the daylight;
But at last, the quiet streets fill up with church people,
And my eyes see far off, as the Acolla bands ready themselves.

# 1943. When I visited Acolla, Peru, during an August Fiesta, my wife and I walked around the city, and ended up on the corner of an old adobe brick house, across from the Plaza de Arms. The morning sun was breaking in the day, and the poem I write reflects this morning, until the church lets out, and the bands take over the plaza area with their brass horns, and assortment of musical instruments. Written 8-20-2007

A Love Poem for Huancayo

When we love, really love
We love the old adobe homes
The rivers, mountain, the old folks
And the Plaza Fountain—
And the streetlights
That is abandoned all night!
And the dogs that sleep with one eye!

When we love, really love
We love the hovering pigeons:
In the Plaza de Arms (by the Cathedral)
The winds of July and August
And the chill at twilight
And the abandoned children—
Those walk the streets at night!

# 1944 (8-21-2007 Written El Tambo, Huancayo)

Jatunmayo, The Great Wanka Warrior (Part TWo) A Poem

Jatunmayo,
The Great Wanka Warrior
(Part Two)

In the seventh century, in the Mantaro Valley of Peru, surrounded by the Andes, lived the unconquerable Wanka warriors, likened to the Spartans of Greece, or Gladiators of Roma. Not even the Inca could subdue them, without the help of the Conquistadores of the 15th Century, and thus, the Conquistadores enslaved the Inca along with the Wanka as well. But this is a story about Jatunmayo, as he called himself, who hunted down his equal and they fought a great fight to see who should carry the name of the Greatest of Wanka Warriors in the valley at that time. And this is the story (Part two to the Wanka Warrior Saga):



The Clash and the Great Effort


“And the flesh I took it as necessary—out of the inner bowels—swiftly
casting it aside; then from the neck and shoulders two pieces of flesh;
above his elbow joint, I cut deep into his muscle with my knife,
his right hand, I took his fingers as he tried to stop the plunge—,
and from his flanks I cut out fat, and yet he was still not dead!
He was but a caucus when I was through, but he still lived…!
“(until when, I cut his throat…then he died!)…


The Defeat and Aftermath

“I cast his bones into the deep of the trees but the branches caught them,
a portion of his body now lay exposed, outside the rim of the woods.
I, who killed this warrior, marked him so, claimed his hide and his soul;
I left his shoulders, head and sides to the great Wanka God, Carhuancho…
“(the rest he left for the condors).
It was a great hunt between he and I, blow to blow, four hours the scuffle;
wealth by wit is what it was, we were the strongest of grips, in Jatunmayo.”



Written in the Mantaro Valley of Peru, 8-13-2007.

Thoughts and Notes on Juan Parra del Riego (By Dennis L. Siluk)

1—It should be noted, Cesar Vallejo was 45-years old when he died, and Juan Parra del Riego was 31; Vallejo born 1893, died 1938, and Parra del Riego born 1894, died 1925, both were friends. One year apart in age. ´Both Great poets, but for my money would take Juan Parra before Vallejo; he is the greatest modern poet in Uruguay, and not quite that well known in Peru, although Huancayo, where he was born he is clearly a name recognized.

2—To my knowledge one has yet to write a full biography of Parra del Riego in English, the contents in this book (and on a site I created for him on the internet in English and Spanish) is the closest thing to one; with some poems, background, sketches, photos of himself and his brothers, and so forth, some external facts to guide us through his life, is the closest thing thus far written on him in over a half century, and the only one in English, ever.

3—We know like Vallejo, Juan went to Paris, and had to borrow money to get back home, thus, he ended up poor, as most poets do, a few exceptions who have received inheritances to help them make it through life.

4—Some reader may ask, ‘Just what can we learn from this Peruvian poet?” This would in itself give justification for publishing, editing, and translating his poetry and background. I mean it was no easy task to do. First of all, scarcely does anyone know the existence of this great poet in North America, or Europe. As they didn’t know about Vallejo, until Robert Bly (North American Poet) translated his works in 1962; I have tried to bring this poet stamina and imagination to bear on the hunger and pain he faced, while writing his poetry, for he was dying during the process, thus we see a different kind of reality here. We see his inner world, almost his soul; this is why I think he is an import poet. Dlsiluk

August Fiest in Acolla, Peru (Valley of Yanamarca) In English and Spanish

August Fiesta in Acolla
(In the Valley of Yanamarca)


The great doors of the church, remain open, as the winter
fragrance
seeps inside ones bones (Fiesta morning in Acolla),
and no one knows what takes place there.

What comes out of Acolla? Music!
The brass horns sound
and the strings of the violin tighten
and out of it comes music for a private fiesta;
if the strings break and the bridge falls,
and the horns crack, life does not stop,
there are more musical instruments than cars…

What comes out of Acolla? Dance!
And there is a dance where hands and feet meet,
many fingers glimpse about, like a thousand petals;
many eyes watch, like an exposition;
and the Holy Virgin, blesses it,
and those listening also.

Men and women who go to this fiesta in Acolla in August
(who eat, drink and dance) will understand this poem.


Note: This poem is not about one soul connecting with another, it is about forgetting dying and loss, about rising above, and coming out and being surrounded by all this joy of food, music, dance, and song.
Note: Dedicated to Apolinario Mayta Inga, who took me to the fiesta in Acolla as his guest (and my wife), on August 5, 2007, and introduced me to many folks there at this little town-let, cozy it was, and we had Mondongo soup, coffee, danced, went to the church and had a parade around the plaza de arms, and listened to the many bands of this musical city. No: 1929, 8-5-2007. Written three hours after my return back to my home in Huancayo, Peru.






Spanish Version


Fiesta de Agosto en Acolla
(En el Valle de Yanamarca)


Las grandes puertas de la iglesia, permanecen abiertas, mientras la
fragancia de invierno
se filtra dentro de nuestros huesos (fiesta en la mañana en Acolla)
y nadie sabe qué tiene lugar allí.

¿Qué sale de Acolla? ¡Música!
Suenan los cuernos de metal
y las cuerdas del violín aprietan
y de este sale música para una fiesta privada;
si las cuerdas se rompen y los puentes se caen,
y los cuernos se rajan, la vida no se detiene,
hay más instrumentos musicales que carros…

¿Qué sale de Acolla? ¡Baile!
Y hay un baile donde las manos y pies se juntan,
muchos dedos vislumbran alrededor, como mil pétalos;
muchos ojos miran, como en una exposición;
y la Santísima Virgen, bendice esto,
y a aquellos escuchando también.

Hombres y mujeres quienes van a esta fiesta en Acolla en Agosto
(quienes comen, beben y bailan) entenderán este poema.


Nota: Este poema no es sobre un alma conectando con otra, este es sobre olvidarse morir y perder, sobre levantarse arriba, y salir y estar rodeado por todo este gozo de comida, música, baile, y canciones.

Nota: Dedicado a Apolinario Mayta Inga, quien me llevó a la fiesta en Acolla como su invitado (con mi esposa), el 5 de agosto de 2007, y me presentó a las muchas personas allí en esta pequeña ciudad, acogedora fue esta, y comimos Sopa de Mondongo, café, bailamos, fuimos a la iglesia y a la procesión alrededor de la plaza de armas, y escuchamos a las muchas bandas de esta ciudad musical.

# 1929, 5-Agosto-2007. Escrito tres horas después de volver a mi casa en Huancayo, Perú.