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POEMS AND ESSAYS

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Chapter One

Memories, The Inner Child, Anticipations, The Final Plop!

    Words, from A to Z

      Back there,
      at dawn,
    when time was beginning
      for me,
    a cry —loud "I am here,"
    my first aria di bravura—
      without words.

      Here,
    in the intermezzo,
    between bars of a solo
    orchestrated just for me,
      a pause to ask:
    Did not the incidental music
      unfold well?
    Affections, relations,
      friendship ...
    in counterpoint
    to insecurity,
    shortcomings,
      faux pas.
    In rewarding sostenuto
      as well,
    to all that I pretend
      to decode
      in tangled staves;
    share in prose or verse.

      Ahead,
    toward the sunset,
    murmurs, farewells,
      sighs....
    Perhaps a dirge
    only I can hear,
    ending in sordino
    that locks forever
    the music chamber
      I reached
    in search of words.


      Solo Impromptu

    I wish you were sitting by my side,
      unknown companion
    in an almost empty airplane.
    I wish we could start a conversation,
    light, uncompromising conversation
      if you'd so desire
    for what is clear, airy, transparent
    accentuates the queenly glamour I admire
    across seatbacks —castellated fortress—
    across the moat-like aisle that separate us.

      It's not good for man to be alone ...
    wasn't it the reason for creating Eve,
      for bonds and rapport to bloom
    from ribs that shielded Adam's heart?

    Convention, shyness, trepidation
      make of closeness
    a Jericho's bastion to be taken by assault.

      Ah, the spell of a few words,
      the linking charm of small talk!
      "The flight has been pleasant,"
      either you or I would comment, or
      "Great weather ... since yesterday!
      It would be ironic if it rains
        when we arrive."

    Let me.... No, let you say anything,
      anything whatsoever;
    there would be gain for both of us
      in the exchange.
      For I saw, in the light
    that for an instant bridged our glances,
      that my solitude
      —stale-with-age solitude—
      is a twin sister
    of your early, too-early-ripening solitude.

        Carpe Momentum

    You close the book. Did Neruda invite to ascend
    to misty Machu Picchu, in search of meaning
    and clarity? Did you unravel the oxymoron?

      Try Mount Ararat, the Sinai:
      You'll learn there of heaven's wrath,
    of the trials of survival. Of fire-engraved rules.

    Beyond Pagan clouds —where the Olympians
    deceive each other, sway men and copulate—
    you'll see why philosophers set fire to myth.

    Not far from the Himalayas, saffron-clothed monks
    will question —with a smile— the search itself,
    and go on untangling koans and humming Oms.

    The setting for the quest? A Hawaiian sunset
    in full splendor; the ocean, a book of poetry;
      the chirp and chatter of birds.

    In front of you, Mauna Loa and Mauna Kea,
      higher than all the sacred mountains.
    Deep foundations on the sea floor support them.

    Profundity then? Should you go downward —inside—
      if the journey is to count?

    Perhaps what the Buddhist silent sermon meant is this:
    See the word as a Zen garden: serene, simple, flat.
    No summits; no intimidation from above. No abyss.

      Seize the moment; beauty surrounds you
      here, now. What else counts?
      Don't you see? Over the waters,
      — self-assured, regal,
      in purple and gold regalia—
      the sun gets ready
      for a gala feast with nymphs and tritons;
      with godly peers, the Pacific Pantheon.


        Smiles and Apprehensions

    The little blond boy in a baby carriage
    rode towards me in an aisle of Vons.
    He's a serious, troubled boy, I thought.
    No; he raised his hand, waved a "HI."
    Granted me a smile. I reciprocated.

    He's home now —happy, I expect—
    ignoring that this encounter
    prompts me to hammer on a keyboard
    something that would look like poetry:
    Irregular right hand margins,
    scarce qualifiers, gripping verbs....

    Seventy five years, race, background
      separate two smiles.
    One, still warm if wrinkled and tired.
    The other, full of potential as mine was
      when I was that age.

      Will we meet again
    in a criss-crossed planet, among billions?
      And if we did, would he say "hello"?
      Will I find the right words?
    Maybe by then he is a cold, matter-of-fact man,
    a bigot who scorns aliens, a neo Nazi ...

    Perhaps by that time I am the one in a wheel chair,
    a conservative who obeys the rules of a world
      that grows sclerotic and drier;
    a sour man who, if a tender soul says:
      "Beauty flourishes sometimes
      in the aisles of a food store ...,"
    would counter with a, "so what! Who cares?"

    No, never! I swear it to the world and to myself.
    I will count and recount pleasant recollections
    the way a miser totals his golden coins.

    As for the boy, do not children
    with engaging smiles, grow
    to be caregivers, music masters;
    artists, poets with minds that expand
      with the universe?

An Opaque Self-Portrait

Friends: You write poems about yourselves with candor and transparency. Now, you say, it is my turn to reveal myself. It is not an easy task. To circumvent it, I'll start by retelling a story. It is not new, the third evangelist wrote it two thousand years ago:

Lazarus, a prosperous entrepreneur, invites a young charismatic preacher for dinner. As they enter the villa, Lazarus receives a call. He must rush to a meeting and leave the guest to the care of his two sisters.

Martha, the oldest, is a practical, matter-of-fact housekeeper, a perfectionist and disciplinarian. And a superb and proud cook. Mary is a romantic twenty-two year old woman, a daydreamer. She attends poetry seminars.

Mary dedicates a full attention to the visitor, a master storyteller who teaches that a perfect utopia, "a heavenly kingdom," is possible on earth.

She is already in paradise when he explains his parables. Nothing, nevertheless, goes well for Martha on this hot humid day. The area, in the midst of an energy crisis, undergoes a blackout. Refrigerator, range, waste disposer stop; tablecloths and napkins are water-soaked in the dryer. Frustrated, she runs to the Living Room and calls Mary apart.

"Total catastrophe!" She whispers. "What are we going to do? —Help!"

"Relax," Mary answers. "Don't you see? I have better things to do."

"If so, I'll ask our friend to spare you. I'll say what a good- for-nothing bum you are!"

"Martha, Martha," the preacher cuts in, laughing. "I know what is going on. No luscious dinner tonight? So what! Order a pizza. Life goes beyond chores, formalities, routine. Ah, but what Mary cherishes, matters of the spirit, they...."

"Pizza, then, maestro" Martha says. "And manna of illuminating words."

What does this story have to do with an exposé about myself? —Nothing, except that it helps to trace parallel lines: A successful, busy, hospitable Lazarus enriched the family. After he, my father, departed, a diligent, no- nonsense Martha took care of us.

As for the rest ... we, the idealists, naïve, quixotic castle builders can proclaim: if we inherited biblical genes, Mary's, we delight in them.

Haven't we grasped the best parcel? Haven't we survived without scars our catastrophes?

If we ever starved, it has been for the manna of inspired words.

        Blessed Are the Meek

    "Dad," Maria Cristina, my daughter, said,
    "ten years ago our gift for your birthday
    was a trip to the land of the ancestors, Spain.
    This time you'll go farther, Tuscany.

    Here is the itinerary: First day, arrival in Barga,
    near Florence. You'll be my sister in law's guest.
        Next day ..."

    Next day the city of the Medici will be at my feet,
    I told myself. Thanks: you overwhelm me.
    The words of the toast keep resonating
    like Verdi's Va Pensiero; I let thoughts fly on golden wings.

    Barga, for example. It has personal meanings.
    Couldn't it be Varga, or Varggi? Names change.
      Anglia is now England and ...

    To the point: Vargas was my mother's maiden name.
    You see? Here's the answer to an old family quest:
      our ancestors came from chosen roots.
    Who can say that Dante, Giotto, Michelangelo's forbears
    didn't share genes with Bargas who moved to Spain?

      As for you, noble city —cradle of the Renaissance—
      I'll come to you as a modest visitor. (Train or bus).

    But I know you'd welcome me the proper way.
    You'll think it is Lorenzo the Magnificent's second coming.
      You'll see me arriving in full regalia,
    riding a white horse, among a cheering multitude
      as in Cavalcades Benozzo Gozzoli painted...

      Children: I must counter generosity with bounty.
      Riches I will not leave. Treasure, instead,
      what I teach here: the sense of proportions,
        balance; humility that only lineage
          and high standing can afford.


    All I Mean is ... Gracias, Gentle Lady

      To Dr. Lorellen Green, M.D.
        Quanto e bella giovinezza ... (Lorenzo de' Medici)

    If I were to write this Thank You poem
      the way old masters did,
      I'd address you as,
    O thou, fine disciple of Hippocrates,
      Asclepius' young daughter;
    paragon of legacies at their best.

      You will read instead
      sledge-hammered prose
      to look like modern verse,
    and quotes of a five hundred years old lament
    —echoed by other poets that shed tears
    for a tesoro divino ... ido para no volver: our youth!

      Why does an octogenarian retell
      classic Italian stanzas
      and paraphrase Spanish verse
      to a physician half his age?

    For an unpoetic and simple reason;
    it has to do with a scene that goes this way:

      A pleasant conversation
      at a hospital CICU room.
      Three or four persons by my bed.
      All smile and listen to you,
      the central dramatis persona.
    Instructions and answers to inane questions:

    "How many languages do you master?
    You demonstrate Spanish is one of them.
      Italian?" —"Certamente."
    "I love the bel languagio too," I say. "Let's see
    if I remember a Lorenzo de' Medici's wail:
    ... bella govinezzsa che si fugge tuttavia...."

    The beauty I honor is this, dear doctor: You listen,
      you acknowledge your patients,
    stretch your schedule to partake with them.
      You understand why for some of them
    it is not enough to say: Thanks! With a few words.

Capriccio in Sea Major

Do I look like an eighty-year old man, a wrinkled mariner? I am much, much older: I share genes with Methuselah, The Wandering Jew, Sinbad.

With the classic rhapsodists I share a calling, I love to tell stories.

The rhapsodists! I learned so much from them. That's why I was asked to motivate —with epic and witty stories—the crew of Jason's fleet. One day the leader of the Argonauts told me: "Enthrall the golden ram. Better, put the dragon to sleep."

I did —serenading words made it easy. How anticlimactic, though, it was to seize a glowing fleece without the sweat and heart beating naval battles carry.

Success, nevertheless, no matter how trouble-free, propels to greater risks. With my help, blood made the blue Mediterranean the reddest sea. Ask the Phoenicians, Persians, Turks. Were not my oar-propelled ships blood-and-water- splashing centipedes?

Now, good deeds atone for zeal and wrath, don't they? I saved Paul of Tarsus in a shipwreck. He thanked me, too, for the advice I gave to Noah, and for smuggling, upstream and inside a whale, the reluctant Jonah.

Whales ..., magnificent creatures; superb seafarers. I love them! Not long ago —when Ahab, an imposing but deserving amputee—, asked me to pilot his craft, "No!" I shouted, "If it is to savage Moby Dick. I am not of your shark-piranha breed."

I yielded, though, to the plea of a Spanish monarch: I sailed —to catastrophe, alas!—with the Armada. Why? To make good my rebuke to Columbus' patroness, a gracious queen.

"To hell," I said, trying poetry, "go with Torquemada, with jail rabble from Cadiz or Granada. Not with me. I won't butcher, slave, steal invoking what's meant to uplift, to redeem."

"But for Eros, Aphrodite, Venus I toiled with gusto, verve and glee: I helped Paris embark with Helen, won over Odysseus to steer toward Calypso's island.... Trouble awaited: the nymph fell in love with me. Odysseus left; I have spread the news his wife was in danger."

Now, a poetic crowning deed: Once —upon a midnight, weary, in the midst of a Poesque drinking spree—a raven-like phantom whispered: Galleons —with Phidias' art— sank across from the Kingdom by the Sea. Rescue an alluring statue of Venus; Edgar Allan must have it ...

"What's the use!" the poet, half inebriated, said. "What's the need? The only goddess, ever ... my Annabel Lee!" —We shared a quart of gin.

Yesterday, I felt the nearness of Erato ... (I was not dreaming, was I?). I confided to her my apprehensions, doubts, fears. This prose poem, for example, is it tainted by excess?

"I inspire, I don't counsel," the muse said, "would poets heed advice now? But I offer you this: Be a time traveler again, visit other cultists of mine; the best. One will know I sent you as he looks at a pottery masterpiece I commend to your care. John Keats will see in the Greek urn a sylvan historian; child of silence; bride of quietness."

In the seaport that feeds Rome I met the poet: frail, wasted by consumption. To hearten him I told the story you've heard. He smiled, shook his head, took breadcrumbs from a pocket of his breeches, offered them to a seagull. "How pure," he whispered, "unsoiled by drives. Do birds fabulate too? If Beauty is truth ... What is truth for them?"

"That brings to qualms you share with many: Absolute fidelity to facts? Never shock logic? Feel entitled to sacrifice a world to trim a verse? I need to write a book to give an answer." Then, after nasty fits of coughing, he added: "Let's deal with your epic. A sustained metaphor blooms along it: repulsion of your own times? Compensatory assertion? Very likely. Of this I am sure: you don't drink.

Beware," he said with a subtle chuckle, "Poe's guiding patroness—frantic, untied—seems eager to share plenty of gin with yours ..."

"Pamper your muse, the only one of her kind. Does she refuse to be a sylvan, plain fiancée of restraint? Welcome it. Don't muzzle her. And, write! It is a calling encoded in our genes, a sealed gift Erato entrusts. —Is our task easy, painless?"

"Never!" Then, with other flattering allusions to my tropes, he said: "As the heroes of the rhapsodies, we brave dragons. We seize threaded gold knowing the risk ..."

"Do we need to undertake it? Do many notice it, concede a polite applause?"

"No but the pursuit, the quest itself, our eurekas! ... how rewarding!"

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from POEMS AND ESSAYS by Manuel Quintero Vargas Copyright © 2011 by Manuel Quintero Vargas. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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