Poems by Lorraine Caputo
Lorraine Caputo is a documentary poet, translator and travel writer. Her works appear in over 250 journals on six continents; and 18 collections of poetry – including On Galápagos Shores (dancing girl press, 2019) and Escape to the Sea (Origami Poems Project, 2021). She also authors travel narratives, articles and guidebooks. In 2011, the Parliamentary Poet Laureate of Canada honored her verse. Caputo has done literary readings from Alaska to the Patagonia. She journeys through Latin America, listening to the voices of the pueblos and Earth. Follow her travels at: www.facebook.com/lorrainecaputo.wanderer or https://latinamericawanderer.wordpress.com.
With these, I invite you to journey with me to Guatemala, Venezuela, the Galápagos Islands and Peru.
A Sunday Morning Walk
This rocky road winds & dips & climbs
through the Cuchumatanes
The valleys resound
with evangelical prayers
& off-key singing
A todosantero herds lambs & goats
down the camino
His white-striped red pants
embroidery-collared white shirts
color the rising dust
Springs rush from the heights
through patches of cabbage & onion
Three young boys
bow under the weight
of bundled firewood
The straps press deep against
their small foreheads, black hair
The wind rustles summer-dried brush
along this twisting road
In the distance white-washed villages
nestle far into the folds
of these mountains
Towards A Blue Horizon
(Snapshots of a journey from the Río Orinoco to the Caribbean Sea)
North across these eastern plains mounded with ant hills.
Cardoon cactus reach towards the climbing sun.
Perched birds of prey, birds of carrion scope the landscape.
Dense pine forests, the resin-smell of a sawmill.
In one clearcut, a bulldozer collects the trunks.
At a crossroad stands a woman statue with a scaffold skirt.
Her skeleton still exposed on thigh, on shoulder.
Fast over a deep-green river lined with palm-wall & thatch huts.
After Maturín, the coastal range now visible hazy on the boreal horizon.
I think faintly I smell the sea on this cooler air.
The straight, straight road now winds – the flat, flat land rolls.
The sky becomes greyer yonder where the daily rains have begun.
Soon they sprinkle & downpour upon us … then leave.
Sun glistens upon plush earth.
Small billboard paintings by local artists brighten
the monotonous-green passage.
Through a village, metal shop blinds drawn shut for lunch.
Three boys swim across a muddy creek.
Slipping into sleep, wrapped in the folds of that range of mountains.
Awakening for a while, attentive to their towering presence.
& dazzled by a blue horizon, a breeze, the smell of salt & fish.
|(Mr. Darwin’s finches in salt bush and espino)|
|(Mr. Darwin’s finches in salt bush and opuntia)|
The morning sea washes unseen
as dawn rose begins lightly
touching eastern clouds.
Mr. Darwin’s finches
the tangled mass
& garúa-dewed saltbush
& espino, opuntia
outside my open door.